Hell or High Water
by Telanu
Summary: A high school AU for The Closer. Brenda is the overachieving cheerleading captain and presumptive valedictorian who has her eye on Georgetown University. And she really, really hates the new history teacher who hails from New York. Why does Miss Raydor get under her skin so badly, especially when she hardly seems to notice Brenda in return?
1. Chapter 1

**Hell or High Water**

By Telanu

Rating: M for Mature  
Fandom: _The Closer_  
Pairing: Brenda/Sharon

Summary: A high school AU for _The Closer_. Brenda is the overachieving cheerleading captain and presumptive valedictorian who has her eye on Georgetown University. And she really, really hates the new history teacher who hails from New York. Why does Miss Raydor get under her skin so badly, especially when she hardly seems to notice Brenda in return?

Thanks to Luthien and luv_capn_raydor for beta reading!

Warning: Teacher/student relationship, though nobody is underage.

**Part I: Undiscovered Countries**

_Atlanta, 1979._

Brenda Leigh wasn't what you'd really call a people-pleaser. She had goals and plans that were much more interesting than sucking up to folks. And she liked to think about ideas and problems more than about people's feelings. Her mother Willie Rae said it was just as well that God had seen fit to make Brenda blonde, petite, and cute as a button. "We all have to be likeable somehow, honey," she sighed.

That didn't mean Brenda didn't find people interesting, though. She really did. Specifically, their tells were interesting. A few years back, when she was in middle school, she'd run across a book on psychology that had drawings of people's faces in it: what people looked like when they were angry, surprised, happy, and so on. Most of that hadn't been much of a surprise (happy people smiled? well she never), but she'd been fascinated by some of the tells she'd learned: liars avoided eye contact, even if they didn't mean to. They fidgeted and turned their bodies away from whoever they were lying to. Meanwhile, if someone was interested in you romantically, they were likely to point their feet towards you whenever they were sitting down. That sort of stuff.

She'd learned to watch people. She'd learned to listen. Her daddy Clay said that Brenda was just like an owl, sitting high up on a branch and watching the mice run to and fro below, missing nothing. "Look at this beak here," he said, tweaking her nose, making her giggle.

She made him proud. Brenda made both her parents proud. She'd been making straight As and was in all honors classes for her senior year of high school. And she was captain of the cheerleading squad. To top it all off, she'd just started dating Fritz Howard, the halfback. He'd been asking since her sophomore year, and she'd finally figured that it couldn't hurt to give it a shot for a year before she went off to college, wherever that would be. Georgetown, she hoped.

No sir, Brenda was not a people-pleaser by and large. But she sure got along okay. Her good looks and athletic ability meant that she always had plenty of friends, even if she wasn't what you'd call real close to any of them. Her smarts and her work ethic endeared her to her teachers. If she could sometimes be a little blunt, well, nobody took it too personally. She would have known if they did. She would have read it in their faces.

And on the whole, she didn't think she was that hard to get along with. She'd get on with you just fine if you let her go her own way (unless you were Clay or Willie Rae, and then naturally your word was law). So, as she got out of bed for the first day of her final year of high school, Brenda thought that matters were looking pretty good.

Then she met Miss Raydor, and that woman went and ruined everything in less than an hour.

* * *

Still. Even if Miss Raydor had been Atlanta born and raised-shoot, even if she'd hailed from Jackson or Birmingham and had the accent to match-Brenda had a feeling they wouldn't get along. At all. Which was odd, because while Brenda was great at forming accurate first impressions, they usually weren't so...emotionally charged.

But when Brenda took her front row seat and Miss Raydor strode in, every hair on Brenda's arms stood on end. She felt a crackle across the back of her neck all the way up to her scalp, like an unpleasant shock. And she knew that something bad was on the way.

Miss Raydor looked to be around thirty years old. Her hair, some shade between brown and red, was pulled back from her face and knotted in a severe bun. Slim, black-framed glasses perched on her nose. She had on a tailored navy blue blazer and skirt-most of the lady teachers wore dresses. And she wore a pair of sleek black pumps with higher heels than Brenda had ever seen on a teacher before. Looking so different from everybody else, such a fish out of water, she should have been a laughingstock from the moment she set foot in her classroom.

Nobody laughed. Not a one of them.

She called the roll and didn't mispronounce a single name, not even Bobbie Krzyzewski's. Then she clapped the gradebook shut, just like when Brenda's daddy loaded a clip into his pistol, and said: "Welcome to honors history, everyone. I'm Ms. Raydor." _Miz_? That didn't mesh with the rest of her accent, Brenda thought. "As you might or might not have heard through the grapevine, I hail from Buffalo. So...I'm a carpetbagger." Her lips quirked up, and a few people chuckled. Brenda blinked. "It will take me a while to learn all your names, so I'll need you to be patient. In the meantime, here's the syllabus." She picked up a thick stack of white papers from her desk. "Please take one and pass it back," she added, and began to hand the syllabi out to the front-row students.

Brenda was watching and listening as hard as she could, and was only getting more disturbed. Miss Raydor's voice was clear and precise; she enunciated everything, and her tone was even. Her face had on a bland, almost polite expression that was just this side of disinterested. She was completely at ease in the high heels, and even though it was August in Georgia, she didn't seem in the least bit overheated in her suit.

No tells. None so far, anyway. Brenda didn't like it one bit.

Passing out the syllabi, Miss Raydor stopped in front of her. She was looking down at the sheets as she counted out enough out to pass down the row. This close, Brenda could detect a faint trace of scent. That wasn't anything unusual in and of itself-lots of the lady teachers wore scent-but this didn't smell like flowers. It smelled almost like men's cologne.

"...six, seven," Miss Raydor muttered as she came to the end of her count. Then, before Brenda could prepare herself, she raised her head and looked into Brenda's eyes as she held out the slim stack of papers.

This time, Brenda felt the shock through her whole body. She felt a little as if she'd been hit really hard on the back of the head, like that time when she was seven and the roughhousing with her cousins had gotten a little too rough, and she'd fallen to the ground in a daze.

Miss Raydor cleared her throat and waved the syllabi in front of Brenda's nose, bringing her back to this world. Brenda heard herself gasp out loud-behind her, David Gabriel snickered-and she took the stack of paper and immediately turned around to pass it back.

"You'll need one too," Miss Raydor said dryly, and Brenda felt her face turn scarlet. Then she added, "Miss...?"

Brenda, in the act of taking a syllabus back from David with a shaking hand, turned to stare at Miss Raydor. "Huh?"

"What is your name?" Miss Raydor inquired.

"What? Uh." Brenda bit her lip. "B-brenda. Ma'am."

"As it appears on the roll, please."

Everyone was staring at them. At the cheerleader valedictorian making a fool of herself in front of the teacher from New York. Brenda felt her stomach getting hot and tight. "Brenda Leigh Johnson," she said through gritted teeth.

"Thank you, Miss Johnson," Miss Raydor said blandly, moving to pass the syllabi down the next row.

_Miss Johnson_? Was Miss Raydor making fun of her? Just because Brenda had spaced out for a second? How horrible, Brenda thought, looking down at the syllabus and not seeing a single letter. How like a Yankee. Her daddy would agree.

Then Miss Raydor continued, as she passed the syllabi down the final row, "I come from a tradition that addresses students by their last names. It is the sign of a contract between you and me. It means that I know you're capable of acting like rational adults, and will treat you as such, so long as you behave as such." She turned a very serious look on them. "You're seniors. And since this is an honors class, I know that most of you will probably go on to further your education next year. I'm more than happy to help with that if you need it-college applications, scholarships, and so on-but what will help the most is for you to get in the proper frame of mind, buckle down, and work hard. Even if you're not used to it." At this last, she glanced at Brenda again.

For heaven's sake! Did she think Brenda hadn't been buckling down since kindergarten? What did this woman know about her? Did she see the blonde hair and the cheerleading uniform and think...oh, of course she did. Miss Raydor thought she had Brenda all figured out already.

And then Brenda Leigh Johnson, who had been taught to revere her teachers only second to her parents and her preacher, who kept her ankles crossed and raised her hand before she so much as coughed in class, narrowed her eyes at Miss Raydor and sneered.

Miss Raydor raised an eyebrow behind her glasses. Her mouth quirked up in something that was sort of like a smirk. _Haughty._That was the word. She was proud and haughty and from up north and she didn't think much about what Brenda thought of her at all.

Well, this was just going to be wretched. But Brenda Leigh always gave as good as she got and this would be no exception. She wasn't somebody to be written off, to be dismissed.

And she'd prove it.

* * *

"I don't see what's so bad about her," Fritz said during lunch, offering Brenda the candy bar his mom had packed for him. "She was fine in third period. Is she different with the honors class?"

"I thought she was okay too," David said, chewing on his bologna sandwich. "She said she'd help us with college applications and everything, and she doesn't even know us yet."

Brenda scowled. "She didn't treat you two like you were a dumb blonde." Then she sipped her chocolate milk, but even that didn't provide much solace. "I'm sick of that already."

"Well," Fritz said, "she'll learn differently fast enough."

"You bet she will. And she's from New York. Thinks she's too smart for Atlanta, probably."

"Is this another Yankee thing?" groaned David. "You swore you wouldn't do that in front of me anymore."

"Oh come on," Fritz said with a grin. "Chicago's not exactly Yankee. You're just Midwestern, that's all."

"No, no, no," Brenda said at once, remorseful. "I didn't mean to say that at all, David."

"And some people," Fritz continued, "don't actually care about the Mason-Dixon line at all, unlike your dad, _Brenda."_

"How come you're not in honors history, Fritz?" David asked through another mouthful of bologna.

"Can't hack it," Fritz sighed. "I've got honors English and math. I'm weakest in history and I need to keep up my GPA to stay on the football team, so." He shrugged. Then he glanced at Brenda. "We've got two classes together, though, and we're on the same lunch, so that's great, huh?"

"What? Oh. Yes, of course it's great," Brenda said.

Fritz squeezed her hand and smiled at her. David laughed. "Okay, I can take a hint, I won't be the third wheel tomorrow."

"I just don't need the competition," Fritz said. David rolled his eyes.

"David," Brenda said in her sweetest voice, "is that a Reese's cup in your lunch bag?"

David sighed and handed it over. "You better pack double the sweets tomorrow, man," he said to Fritz.

"Believe me," Fritz said, putting one arm around Brenda and squeezing her shoulder. "I plan to."

* * *

That afternoon, when classes were done, Brenda headed out to the football field, feeling almost lightheaded with relief. The memory of Miss Raydor's snooty face had been plaguing her all throughout the day, and around fourth period, just when Brenda had managed to think about something else, Miss Raydor had to go and walk down the hallway, head lifted high as if she owned the place. Brenda's stomach had curdled and all those angry feelings just came roaring right back.

Really, it was a good thing that Fritz wasn't in honors history. Brenda had a feeling she wasn't going to be on her best behavior, and that might shock him. Besides, she didn't need the—the distraction. It wouldn't do for her to take her eyes off that woman for one single minute, not when she needed to be on her guard. At least until she figured out Miss Raydor's tells.

But on the football field, Miss Raydor was nowhere in sight. And when Brenda had her cheerleaders all lined up in front of her, shoulders straight and awaiting her commands, Brenda was able to put that infuriating woman right out of her mind once and for all.

"All right!" she said, clapping her hands. "Let's go! Pair up, bases and flyers! Amy, you'll be base, Steffi, you'll fly—"

Amy opened her mouth to whine. Brenda looked at her.

"Sure thing, Captain," Amy said, and nodded at Steffi as she jogged into position. Good. Brenda supposed she could sympathize—she herself was so small and light that she was a perfect flyer, and never had to worry about holding anybody's butt up high in the air. But everybody had a job to do and there was no use complaining about it.

"Looks like you've got them off on the right foot," a familiar voice said. Brenda turned with a smile to see Coach Pope striding over while the football team gathered on the field. Behind Pope, Fritz waved at Brenda, who returned it.

Coach Pope put his hands on his hips and critically surveyed Brenda's squad. "Not bad, I guess."

"Thank you, sir." Brenda grinned at him. She liked Coach Pope. He was funny and always seemed willing to turn a blind eye to the cheerleaders' antics. Not that there would be a lot of those now that she was in charge.

Pope smiled at her. "Did you have a good summer, Brenda?"

"Oh yes, sir. We made it up to Tybee Island for a week in July."

"Tybee? Nice. Looks like you got a tan."

Brenda giggled. "I burned as red as a lobster. Momma pitched a fit when she saw."

"I'm sure she did. I guess it paid off, though. You're looking good."

"Thank you, sir." Brenda grinned again. The coach was such an old flirt, always teasing the girls. But he kept winning games. And he was harmless, really. Just having fun.

"Where's Coach Daniels?" he asked.

"Right here, Will." Brenda turned around to behold Coach Daniels heading onto the field, clipboard in hand. She surveyed her cheerleaders getting into position with amusement. "Just couldn't wait, could you, Brenda?"

"No, Coach," Brenda said, not sorry a bit.

"How was your summer, Irene?" Pope asked.

"Too short," Coach Daniels said, and he snorted in agreement. "Go do your job, Will. All right, girls. Let's make this year the best one yet!"

Brenda crossed her arms proudly and nodded at the squad. It would definitely be the best year yet. And nobody was going to ruin it for her. Nobody.

* * *

But somehow, over supper that night, Brenda didn't find herself talking about her squad, about Fritz, or about her classes. Instead, she found herself holding forth on her new history teacher while her parents listened to her in evident surprise.

"…and just so high-handed and snooty," Brenda concluded, reaching for a piece of cornbread. "I mean, you'd think she was Queen of England or something."

"She sounds aggravating," Clay said, "but that's your teacher, Brenda Leigh."

"I know, Daddy," Brenda sighed.

"It was only your first day," Willie Rae said encouragingly. "And she's new here. I expect she's got a lot to learn and she feels a mite out of place. Don't be too quick to judge."

"It ain't becoming to take such a powerful dislike to someone right away," Clay added. "Just keep hold of your temper and mind yourself. Got a big year ahead of you. And you ought to be thinking about those college applications. UGA's got a spot with your name on it, I know."

"I don't want to think of her going all the way to Athens," Willie Rae said.

"Honey, Athens is just an hour and a half off, give or take."

"I know, I know, but Georgia State is right here in town. Or even Agnes Scott, or Emory."

"Emory! You think we're made of enough money to send her to Emory?"

While her parents bickered, Brenda squirmed and thought of Georgetown. She hadn't told them yet about how she wanted to go there, although she'd let a couple of teachers in on it. She wasn't sure how. It was both far away and expensive. But D.C. was such an exciting place, and Georgetown just felt like a good fit, somehow. She'd sent away for a course catalogue this summer and currently had it stuffed under her mattress. Maybe she could get a loan. Or even a scholarship if she kept working hard.

She loved her parents and her home. She loved Atlanta, too. But the world out there was big and full of opportunities and experiences. She was looking for something—something great, something huge, something she could devote her life to. She just didn't know what yet. But she suspected it wasn't here.

"Brenda," Willie Rae said, "do you want a slice of pecan pie?"

"Do I ever!" Brenda said, returning to earth with a joyful jolt. "Is this the recipe you added chocolate to?"

"Just for you. I don't know where you put it, honey. Must be all those backflips. Help me clear."

Brenda hopped up to her feet and took Clay's plate from him while he polished off his iced tea. "May I be excused when I've done the dishes?"

"But you just said you wanted pie."

"I do, Momma, I do, but I have a lot of studying, and I just know that pie will help me concentrate better while I work. Can I take it to my room?"

"First day of school and you've already got a lot of homework?" Clay asked in surprise.

"Not a lot," Brenda said. "I just want to make sure I don't fall behind." She'd already read the first two chapters of all her textbooks, but there was no sense in getting lazy, and she wanted to review her German verbs again.

"Well, don't get crumbs all over everything again," Willie Rae said. "Last thing we need is ants."

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Brenda decided that it was a good thing history was first period, so she could get it over with. How awful it would be to dread seeing Miss Raydor all day long. It was bad enough walking down the hallway next to Fritz and knowing what awaited her.

Fritz stopped in front of Miss Raydor's door and gave Brenda a bashful smile. "See you next period," he said.

She managed to smile tightly back. "Of course, of course." Then, because something more seemed to be called for, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. He turned bright red, and his bashful smile turned into a real grin.

Brenda didn't devote too much time to thinking about that, though, as she pivoted on her heel and headed into the classroom before the bell rang. Miss Raydor sat at her desk, looking up at Amy Sykes with a polite smile as Amy jabbered on about how she hoped Miss Raydor would help her with her college applications, because she might major in history just because she loved it so much. Oh, for heaven's sake, what kind of idiot would fall for that nonsense?

"I'll be happy to help, Miss Sykes," Miss Raydor said, rising to her feet just as the bell rang. "Now take your seat, please." Amy practically bounced back to her desk. Brenda rolled her eyes just in time for Miss Raydor to catch her at it. Miss Raydor frowned, but then shrugged a little as if to say _what else did I expect_, and picked up another stack of Xeroxes.

"All right, everyone," she said, holding up a sheet of paper. "Your first pop quiz."

"But we didn't even have any homework!" protested Michael Tao in the third row.

Miss Raydor smiled. "I know. Don't worry, Mr. Tao." Big deal, Brenda thought, she'd memorized everybody's names overnight. Were they supposed to be impressed? "You get to take this quiz twice: today and then again at the end of the school year. What you see in my hand is a blank map of the world. I want you to label as many countries as you can in ten minutes."

Everybody groaned except for Brenda, who was busy deciding which of the continents she intended to start with. This was as perfect as if she'd planned it. Miss Raydor thought she was a dumb blonde? Well, how many dumb blondes had memorized the world atlas at age twelve?

When Miss Raydor handed Brenda the Xeroxes to pass back, Brenda gave her the smuggest smile she could, and cooed, "Thank you, ma'am."

Miss Raydor only raised an eyebrow and said, "You're welcome. Eyes on your own maps, everyone."

Wait. Had that woman just implied Brenda would cheat? As if she'd even need to! Biting her lip, she passed the blank maps back to David, who gave her a startled look in exchange. She must look madder than she meant to. Well…whatever. Brenda snarled and bent to her own map with a will.

Only it was harder than she'd expected. Maybe it was because she was so riled up. Maybe it was because she was sure, dead sure that Miss Raydor was staring at her the whole time, even though Brenda kept her eyes on her own map. But for whatever reason, Brenda just couldn't remember which one was Yugoslavia and which one was Romania.

And this was a stupid map, too. There was just one big area for the USSR with no borders drawn in. How was Brenda supposed to fill in Estonia and the Ukraine and the other Georgia and all the rest without borders? She could try to draw her own, but she was using a pen, and she couldn't erase and start over if she screwed up…wait. She thought she'd located Romania, but what if it was really Hungary? Why couldn't she think straight?

"Time."

Brenda looked up in outrage before her eyes landed on the clock. She saw, with shock, that ten minutes were already up. She hadn't even started on Africa or South America. "It's not fair!" she cried.

Then she went red to the roots of her hair as everyone turned to stare at her. Brenda Leigh Johnson never spoke out of turn in class, and she certainly never whined.

"I repeat," Miss Raydor said, speaking to the whole class but obviously using a soothing voice just for Brenda, "you'll have another chance to complete this at the end of the school year. Sign your name and pass your map to the front of the room."

Looking down at her pathetic, half-finished map, Brenda realized that she had, in fact, mixed up Yugoslavia and Romania. And she couldn't change it now because time was up.

David tapped her on the shoulder and she took the maps from him. Miss Raydor came to stand at the head of her row, hand held out expectantly. But instead of giving her the maps, Brenda began sorting through them, desperate to see how far everybody else had gotten, and just about ready to cry when she saw David had done better than she had.

"Miss Johnson," Miss Raydor said, and without further ado, plucked the quizzes out of Brenda's shaking hands. Before she thought better of it, Brenda looked up into her eyes, impassive through the black rims of her glasses. They were a soft, pale green. Brenda hadn't met a lot of people with green eyes.

"T-ten minutes isn't long enough," she stammered. "Who's supposed to label the whole world in ten minutes?" Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Grace Tuff poke Amy's shoulder and snicker.

"Well, perhaps I'll give you more time at the end of the year," Miss Raydor said mildly, turning to put the maps on her desk.

"You better!" Brenda blurted.

Miss Raydor turned to look at her, eyebrows raised again in surprise. But Brenda was too busy being appalled at herself to enjoy it. Had she just talked back to a teacher? Really?

"Brenda, jeez," David muttered.

"Go to the principal's office," Miss Raydor said.

Her voice was as calm as if she'd been commenting on the weather, so it took Brenda a second to process what she'd said. When she did, her blood began ringing in her ears. "W-what?" she managed.

"Go to the principal's office, or I will call to have someone take you there. This kind of disruption is completely unacceptable." Miss Raydor nodded towards the door. "Take your books and go now, Miss Johnson."

The world spun around Brenda as she stood up and took her bookbag, almost staggering out of the room. She barely noticed the shocked murmurs following in her wake, although she definitely heard Miss Raydor's firm voice restoring order.

The walk down the hallway to Principal Delk's office might as well have been her walk down death row. It would amount to the same thing when her parents heard about it. What would her daddy say? And oh, Coach Daniels was going to be so disappointed…and everybody was going to be talking about it, Brenda Goody Two Shoes getting in trouble like this.

Oh, that woman. This was all her fault. Brenda wasn't sure how yet, but it had to be, because never in her life had she acted like this. So it had to be something about Miss Raydor, not Brenda herself, and maybe if she explained as much to Principal Delk, he'd see things her way.

He didn't.

Instead, he sat across his massive desk from Brenda, his hands folded, as he used words like 'surprised at you' and 'very disappointed' and 'expected better' and 'I will mention this to Coach Daniels' and 'next time we will have to notify your parents'.

At the last one, Brenda almost doubled over in relief. Next time. Not this time. "There won't be a next time, sir," she said. "Really. I promise."

Delk was notorious for his stone face, but now he smiled. "I'm glad to hear it. It's only right that you're here, though. Miss Raydor needs to set a good example." At the mention of that name, Brenda's good mood vanished. "I expect you of all people to understand that. You're the cheerleading captain and our current valedictorian."

"Yes, sir," Brenda said through a mouth that felt like sand. "Of course." If she didn't say it now, she might never get another chance. "But sir, I've never been a bad student before. I-it's something about her, I think." Principal Delk blinked. "I just…she, she's…" But what to say now? How to explain? She should have thought this through much better.

The grim look was back on Delk's face. "Miss Raydor won the Teacher of the Year award last year for Erie County in New York. I understand that she was a serious contender for the entire state. That's an incredible achievement. We are lucky to have her."

Brenda's shoulders slumped. "Yes, sir. Sorry."

"You'd better get used to putting up with people you don't like, Brenda," Principal Delk said. "That's life."

How humiliating was this? She was being treated like a child. "Yes, sir," she said again through gritted teeth.

"I'm not sending you back to class," Delk said. "I think there's been enough disruption for one morning. There are fifteen minutes left until the bell rings. Sit in reception and work on your homework or something, and I don't want to hear a peep out of you. Now or, ideally, until you deliver your speech at graduation."

For the next fifteen minutes, Brenda sat on the uncomfortable naugahyde couch and didn't lift her head from her trigonometry book for fear of running into the disapproving gaze of Miss Cleveland, the secretary. She wanted to disappear. The walls of the administrative offices were clear, covered only by mini-blinds that were always raised. Anybody who walked down the hall could see her sitting here in disgrace. And it wasn't so much that Brenda cared whether they thought she was a great person or anything, but that they'd all know that she'd made a mistake.

She didn't care for making those. Especially not in front of other people.

The rest of the day didn't improve a lot. By lunchtime, the news had even trickled down to the freshmen, and only Fritz's defiant arm around her shoulders made Brenda feel better. What didn't make her feel better, though, was Trish McCollum stopping by her table to say that she felt just terrible about what had happened in class. Trish sat right behind Grace, who sat behind Amy, and Brenda remembered their snickering.

"So you agreed with me," Brenda said flatly. "I bet you told Miss Raydor that she was wrong the minute the door shut behind me." Trish flushed. "Well, thanks for your support. Thank you so much."

At cheerleading practice, Coach Daniels pulled Brenda aside to say in concern, "Hey. I heard about what happened this morning. That's so not like you, Brenda. Is everything okay?"

Strangely enough, that was what made Brenda feel truly ashamed of herself. "No," she admitted. "Everything's fine. I don't know what got into me. She just made me so mad!"

"Really?" Coach Daniels frowned. "I've only talked to her a couple of times, but she struck me as pretty nice. What did she say?"

Brenda knew she was doomed the moment she had to say, "That…uh…she'd give us more time on our quiz at the end of the school year. And…and we should keep our eyes on our own tests."

After a pause, Coach Daniels said, "That's it?"

"Well, yes, but the way she said it—" Brenda hung her head. "I'm sorry, Coach."

"Suck it up and shape up, Johnson," Coach Daniels said briskly, the concern gone from her eyes. "If that's all it was, you're lucky I don't make you run laps. Now get out there and tell our girls how not to make fools of themselves."

That was advice, Brenda thought, that she certainly could have used herself this morning. Preferably before even getting out of bed.

* * *

The next day, she vowed, would be better. It was already off to a bad start, since everyone was looking at her the moment she stepped into the history classroom. Everyone except Miss Raydor, whose fan club had evidently grown to two. Today both Grace and Trish had gathered around her desk, talking to her with starry-eyed expressions on their faces. The sight put a knot in Brenda's stomach. She sat down, took out her book and her notebook, arranged them on her desk, and stared straight ahead at the chalkboard without even returning David's greeting.

She knew she needed to apologize to Miss Raydor. Not now, but after class. The very idea made her want to puke.

The bell rang, and Miss Raydor rose to her feet, shooing Grace and Trish back to their seats. How did she get her suits to fit that well? Brenda had only worn a suit once. She'd borrowed it from her aunt for a debate in civics class when they all had to dress up. She'd looked ridiculous, like a little kid trying to play lawyer. Miss Raydor looked like a real lawyer. Shoot, she probably should have been a lawyer, with those cold eyes, and then she and Brenda would have never even met.

"I'll begin by handing out yesterday's quizzes," she said, holding up the Xeroxes. The knot in Brenda's stomach became more painful. "Hold on to these. I actually encourage you to fill in what you missed during the course of the semester as we go along. Use it as a study guide."

Noah Palmer raised his hand. "Ma'am, I know this is world history and all, but why is geography so important? I mean, the world didn't even look like that during most of the time we're going to study."

Yes! Brenda sat up straight in her chair. Finally, somebody on her side. What would Miss Fancypants have to say to that? How long before Noah was sent to the principal's office?

But Miss Raydor set the Xeroxes down and leaned back against her desk, propping herself up against it in a surprisingly casual manner. She crossed her ankles. The pose made her blazer ride up a bit, and Brenda could just see her ivory blouse tucked into her waistband. She smiled and said, "Thank you for asking that question, Mr. Palmer. It will probably be the most important question anybody raises for the rest of the school year." Noah looked baffled, but also pleased with himself. "Can anybody finish this phrase for me? Those who forget history are doomed to…"

There was a pause. _Repeat it, repeat it, _Brenda thought, but darned if she was going to say so. Darned if she was going to speak up in this woman's class ever again.

David raised his hand. Miss Raydor nodded at him. "Repeat it?" he asked hesitantly.

Miss Raydor pointed at him. "Exactly, Mr. Gabriel. It is inevitable that, as we study history, we compare it to the way the world is today. Equally, whenever we look at today's world, we need to know how we got here. As you kick off your senior year, it's important to take stock of what you know already, and how much you have to learn." She smiled again, and her voice warmed as she said, "Let yourself be curious. Ask all kinds of questions. Not just when Pearl Harbor happened, or even how, but why. Why _did_ the Japanese attack? Or, looking overseas, why have some countries turned to communism and others haven't? Why does it matter, for example—" She glanced down at the Xeroxes and picked up the first sheet off the stack. "Where Romania and Yugoslavia are, relative to one another?"

Brenda felt her whole face get hot. That must be her quiz, and her mistake, and Miss Raydor had just announced it to the whole class, sort of. That woman! She'd done it on purpose, she must have!

"These are things that only history can teach us," Miss Raydor continued. "Past and present do not exist in isolation. That being said, I'm pleased overall with how most of you did on the quiz. You're a well-informed bunch."

"We're honors students," Michael Tao said, sounding proud of it.

This time, for half a second, Miss Raydor actually grinned. "Indeed you are."

Oh, please. That's what it took to put a smile on her face? Brenda pursed her lips. Not that she had anything against Mike, not really, even though he was her closest competition for valedictorian, but come on. That was simply ridiculous.

Then Miss Raydor began to return the quizzes, and she did something very peculiar. Maybe Brenda was the only one who noticed it, but Miss Raydor deftly snatched a quiz from the middle of the stack and returned it to its owner (Noah, as it turned out) as if it had been the top quiz on the pile. Then, and only then, did she hand Brenda's back.

Brenda didn't know what sort of gesture that was supposed to be, and it didn't matter, since she'd made a C. And at the top of the paper, in red ink, Miss Raydor had neatly written, _Attention to detail is good, but try not to get too bogged down at the expense of the rest of your work. _The absolute gall of her.

Plus the paper smelled like something. Glancing around, Brenda saw that everyone was looking at their own quizzes, so she took a second to sniff the page. It smelled a little bit like that cologne or whatever that Brenda had detected on Miss Raydor the first day. Sheesh, had she spritzed on a fresh batch before sitting down to grade papers or something? Just to feel festive and fancy while she dealt out the worst grade Brenda had ever earned in her life? It figured.

Brenda sniffed again. If Miss Raydor hadn't been wearing it, it might have smelled sort of nice. Maybe.

"What are you doing?" David whispered behind her, and Brenda blushed again. She shook her head rapidly, shushing him, and tucked the quiz carefully into her three-ring binder labeled 'history.' She longed to pitch it in the trash, but she kept everything, even if she knew that in a month, everything in the binder was going to look…less than organized. Her mother often said that she didn't know how Brenda kept everything so neat and tidy in her head when she was such a mess everywhere else.

Although Miss Raydor seemed bound and determined to turn Brenda's head into a mess, too, for which she ought not to be forgiven. Well, no worries on that count. Brenda wasn't about to forgive her.

And everybody else seemed to think she'd hung the moon: Principal Delk, Coach Daniels, and, apparently, Brenda's fellow students, who diligently copied down notes on Miss Raydor's lecture and asked questions as if they'd never been so fascinated. Well, the boys were probably fascinated by how long Miss Raydor's legs looked with those stupid high heels, but Brenda certainly couldn't account for the girls.

It felt like forever until the bell rang. Probably because Brenda was dreading so much what had to come now. She took her sweet time packing her things up, waiting for everyone to drift out, waving at David to go on ahead without her. She kept glancing nervously at the door, hoping that Fritz wouldn't show up in time to watch her humiliation.

When the last straggler had left, Brenda paused in front of Miss Raydor's desk, fidgeting in spite of herself. She'd been rehearsing her apology all class: _I'm sorry for yesterday, ma'am. It won't happen again. _And then she'd make a beeline for the door, as simple as could be.

Miss Raydor finished erasing the chalkboard—how did she not get dust all over that dark suit?—and turned to see Brenda hanging around. She raised her eyebrows and said, "Yes, Miss Johnson?"

_I'm sorry for yesterday. I'm sorry for yesterday. It won't happen again._

But somehow, what came out was, "You shouldn't have read my mistake to the whole class!"

Miss Raydor blinked. "What makes you think I did?"

This woman really did think Brenda was an idiot. "I saw you. You switched out the quizzes, but mine was the one on top, the one you were really looking at." Miss Raydor sighed, and shook her head, and that made Brenda furious enough to say, "I'm not stupid, so stop acting like I am!"

"I am going to say this once, and only once," Miss Raydor said. She folded her arms. "Adjust the attitude. I heard great things about you, but you seem determined to prove everybody wrong." Brenda spluttered. "I don't know what your problem is, but get it under control. That's all I have to say." She nodded towards the door. "Now go, or you're going to be late."

No tells, no nothing, Brenda might as well have been talking to a wall. She stomped towards the door, not even noticing Fritz until she practically ran over him in the hallway.

"What happened today?" he asked, sounding almost resigned, which only made it worse. Already, people just expected that Brenda was going to screw up in that woman's class.

"Nothing. Nothing at all," she said brightly, and slid her arm into his, not looking behind her because she just knew Miss Raydor was watching. Why give her the satisfaction? "Let's get goin', okay?"

* * *

TBC...


	3. Chapter 3

Brenda didn't manage to apologize the next day either, or the next, or any other day after that. She did, however, manage not to speak out of turn again. But that was all. She knew that she shouldn't sit in class and glower, silently broadcasting her contempt, but she couldn't seem to help herself. It was really the best she could do.

At least Miss Raydor couldn't do anything about it. Brenda obviously wasn't on her best behavior, but so long as she didn't actively say or do anything disrespectful, Miss Raydor just had to put up with it. It was the one consolation Brenda had. And it still wasn't much of one, because what did Miss Raydor need Brenda's approval for, when she had a growing coterie of hangers-on?

It was disgusting. When Brenda arrived every morning, Miss Raydor was already chatting pleasantly with the students who'd arrived early just to talk to her. Usually it was about the homework, or they wheedled her about the upcoming essay (which she sometimes had them work on in class. In _groups._ Brenda had never in her life). Or they asked Miss Raydor questions about applying to college. During the fourth week of school, Brenda even walked in on Trish asking Miss Raydor about living in Buffalo, and Miss Raydor said something about how cold the winters were, which was supposed to be some kind of impressive revelation, Brenda guessed.

And today David was there too, listening as if it was interesting. At least when he saw Brenda he had the grace to look self-conscious.

"So that's what she tells people in the mornings?" she asked him at lunch that day. "It's colder in New York than it is in Georgia, woo hoo?"

David squirmed, and Brenda regretted her tone a little. As miffed as she was, it was kind of nice to have him there, because she was running out of conversation with Fritz. She liked Fritz a lot, but he seemed to get tired of hearing her talk about school and cheerleading all the time. What else was there to talk about, though? That silly movie they saw last weekend that she already couldn't remember, because she hadn't paid attention, because she'd been too busy rehearsing squad formations in her head?

"I don't know. I'm not usually there that early," he said. "I don't think she ever talks about anything really personal, though."

"How do you know?" Brenda demanded.

"We'd have heard the juicy details by now," Fritz said, sipping his Coke.

"Juicy." Brenda snorted and crunched up the silver wrapper of her candy bar in her fist. It crackled. "Yeah, right. I bet her weekends are real wild."

"I, uh, don't think anybody's mentioned her weekends," David said.

"Except you, just now," Fritz added.

Brenda flushed. "I was just talking. About something other than school, isn't that what you wanted?"

"I don't know if ragging on Miss Raydor _again_ qualifies as not talking about school," Fritz said.

"Well—it—oh, that woman," Brenda said, defeated.

"Hey, have you finished the essay yet?" David asked. "It's due tomorrow."

Brenda straightened her shoulders. "Yes. Last night. I'm gonna go over it again tonight. I want to check all my cross-references and get Momma to look at it."

Fritz looked alarmed. "Cross-references? We had to have those? Or is it just you guys in the honors class?" David shook his head. "Oh. Brenda's just overachieving again." He gave her a wry smile.

"I'm not giving her any excuses," Brenda said. "I'm sick of her thinking I'm dumb."

"Er, haven't you been making As on all the quizzes?" David asked. "I mean, since the first one? You said you were."

"This is going to be the best essay she's ever seen," Brenda said, stabbing a carrot stick with her fork. "And she's just gonna have to deal with it."

"Better her than us," Fritz sighed.

He convinced her to leave lunch a little early so they could go for a walk down the hallway. Brenda thought for a second that David looked relieved when they departed, but she'd probably just imagined it. Besides, Fritz had his arm nice and snug around her waist, and seemed happy just to get her to himself for a few minutes. He really did like her, Brenda had to admit. He could have a lot of other girls, but he wanted her. She wasn't quite sure why, but it made her feel good.

So when he gave her a roguish grin and urged her into a corner, she didn't resist as she might usually have done. She enjoyed kissing Fritz, and she appreciated the way he always backed off when she told him that she'd gone as far as she was going to go. Her last boyfriend, Wallace, hadn't liked that at all, and he certainly hadn't been worth the aggravation. But Fritz was very sweet about it. And it wasn't just because Brenda's daddy had threatened (in a friendly way) to shoot him if he stepped out of line.

PDAs weren't usually her thing. She'd been raised to behave like a lady. Still, with most everybody at lunch, it wasn't too crowded, and Fritz really had been patient this week, so Brenda obligingly raised her face to his. He'd shaved this morning. His cheeks were soft, and he smelled like aftershave. She touched his face with the tips of her fingers, enjoying the texture of his skin, and smiled against his mouth.

"Can I see you after practice?" he asked between kisses.

"Mm. You can even drive me home."

Instead of replying, he hummed and kissed her once more. Her stomach started getting pleasantly warm. But really, enough was enough, especially in a hallway. She didn't think much of couples who spent all their time canoodling by the lockers. It was more like showing off than anything. She'd just put her hand on his shoulder and begun to apply pressure when she heard:

"Ahem."

Fritz jerked backwards, and Brenda saw Miss Raydor standing there looking at them, her arms crossed. Brenda's own arms prickled with sudden goosebumps. How long had-?

"Knock it off, you two," Miss Raydor said, sounding more amused than severe. "This is a public hallway, and rules are rules."

Fritz coughed. "Yes, ma'am. Sorry."

Miss Raydor looked at Brenda as if she was waiting for something. But Brenda was too mortified to speak. That was just as well, because she might have said something downright unforgivable. As it was, she could only squeak while trying to stay hidden behind Fritz's body, shielding herself as if she were stark naked.

When it became apparent that Brenda had nothing to contribute to the conversation, Miss Raydor shook her head, turned, and left, her heels clacking against the floor. When she was out of earshot, Fritz sighed heavily. Then he gave Brenda a red-faced grin. "Yikes. Good thing your essay's gonna be perfect, huh?"

"She was spying on us!" Brenda managed.

Fritz blinked, and said slowly, "Uh, I don't think so. I mean…we are right here in the hallway."

"Who knows how long she was standing there!"

"What? Oh, come on, Brenda."

"I've never been so embarrassed—" Brenda pushed past him, clutching her books to her chest and keeping her head down as she hurried down the hallway, deciding she might as well get to biology class a few minutes early.

"Brenda, jeez," Fritz said, his long strides easily keeping pace with her. "She wasn't mad or anything. It's not a big deal."

"It is too!"

"Why? It's not like she's going to tell your parents," Fritz said a little more tartly than usual.

"Because she…what are you saying?"

"Nothing," Fritz said, too fast.

"It's not wrong that I want to please my parents!"

"I didn't say it was…"

"There are a lot of girls who want to rebel against their mommas and daddies," Brenda said, sticking her nose in the air as she walked. "They think they're real special snowflakes. You want one of them instead, they're easy to find. A dime a dozen, I bet."

"Brenda, I like your parents," he said, stopping by his locker and throwing open the door with a little more force than strictly necessary. "In fact, right now, I might like them more than I like you."

Brenda's jaw dropped. "_Oh!_"

Fritz didn't drive her home after practice, and as Brenda watched Willie Rae read her essay that evening, she decided that was just one more piece of blame she could lay at Miss Raydor's doorstep. As if she needed to squabble with her cute, sweet boyfriend on top of everything else.

"Well, this is—surprising, honey," Willie Rae said with a frown as she read the final paragraph. "You've never written anything quite like it before, have you?"

"What's that?" Brenda asked, trying to bring herself back to the present.

"I mean, this essay. You're taking Alexander the Great and comparing him to Mr. Reagan."

"Great man," boomed Brenda's father from his recliner as he watched TV. "Gonna be our next President, you watch!"

"Now, Clay," reproved Willie Rae. "President Carter is a Georgia man."

"Well, he ain't done us proud," Clay grumbled.

Willie Rae rolled her eyes as she turned back to Brenda's essay. "Anyway, is this the sort of thing your teacher really wants you to write?"

"She says the past and future are interconnected," Brenda said. "We talk about it in class all the time. She never shuts up about it."

"Brenda," Willie Rae said sternly.

"Sorry," Brenda sighed.

Willie Rae looked over the essay again. "Well, did you learn anything? I do think this is very interesting."

"Yes," Brenda said, peering at her outline again. "I learned a lot. About Mr. Reagan, anyway. I already knew everything about Alexander from what she told us in class."

"Really? All this?"

"Well, that and the reading I did on my own. She gave us a list of books she thought we could use, depending on what we picked for our topic. Look, I referenced 'em all on this list right here. I think my citations look right, don't you?"

"So…she gave you a lot of good stuff to start with, and made you want to go out and learn more, and then you used all that to come up with your own ideas."

"Yes," Brenda said, sensing a trap.

"Brenda Leigh, that sounds like a very good teacher to me."

Brenda bit her lip. No doubt her mother had a point; but somehow, all Brenda could think about was Miss Raydor's green eyes as she surprised Brenda and Fritz in the hallway. The mere memory was enough to make her face get hot.

That night, before she went to bed, she typed out a fresh draft of her paper and made sure there were no typos. Most of the students were going to turn in hand-written essays, but that wouldn't do for Brenda, no sir. Partly because her handwriting was chickenscratch, and she wouldn't give Miss Raydor any excuses to knock off points for poor penmanship.

When she had the whole thing typed up, she punched three holes in the margins and tied the lot together with neat little black strings, almost like a present. She even included a cover page with a title. _Alexander the Great and The Great Communicator: A Comparison._ It sounded pretty good if you asked her. Downright scholarly, in fact.

The next day, when they all handed in their essays after class, Brenda practically slammed her essay on Miss Raydor's desk and gave her a smile of pure challenge.

Miss Raydor blinked slowly and tilted her head to the side. Challenge accepted.

Brenda skipped out of the door, and it wasn't until she saw Fritz that she remembered they were fighting. Later, it wasn't until she smooched him after football practice that they weren't fighting anymore, but really, that was just a few hours in the grand scheme of things.

That was Friday. She was on pins and needles all weekend, but she knew that it was going to take Miss Raydor longer than a couple of days to grade those essays. Three classes had turned them in at the same time: the honors class and the two regular ones. She might not even grade the honors class first, Brenda reminded herself. Might even save them for last, just because. That would be like her, wouldn't it?

As Brenda had expected, Miss Raydor had not graded the twenty honors essays by Monday.

She graded them all by Tuesday. That morning, there they were. Sitting in a neat stack on Miss Raydor's desk, waiting to be returned at the end of class. Brenda tried to concentrate on what Miss Raydor was saying about the Roman roads, she really did, but it was no use.

When precisely five minutes of class were left, Brenda—staring again at the stack—heard Miss Raydor say, "All right, time to return your essays. I see that some of you can barely contain yourselves anyway." Brenda looked up and saw that Miss Raydor was staring right at her. Her cheeks warmed, but she looked right back defiantly. She hadn't been disruptive, had she? She had a right to be curious about her own grade, didn't she?

This time, Miss Raydor didn't walk around passing out the essays. Instead, she called everyone up by alphabetical order so they could pick their essays up on their way to their next class. When Miss Raydor called "Mr. Harkness," Brenda barely waited for the final syllable to fade before she was on her feet, already shouldering her backpack and ready for her turn.

"Miss Johnson," Miss Raydor said, her face a perfect blank as she returned Brenda's essay, still tied up neatly without a black thread out of place.

Brenda grabbed it and bolted to the door, opening the pages before she was even in the hallway. Thank goodness Fritz was home sick today. She didn't need the distraction. She huddled by the lockers, shaking as she flipped all the way to the last page, where Miss Raydor's red pen had written her grade.

A-minus.

_A-minus._

The world faded around Brenda as her jaw hung open in disbelief. It wasn't until somebody poked her in the shoulder that she remembered she was still at school, and she looked up to see David's concerned face.

"So, um, how'd you do?" he asked.

"What did you get?" Brenda croaked.

"B-plus," he sighed. "Darn. I was really hoping for—hey!"

Brenda snatched his paper because she had to see his grade for herself. Sure enough, there it was. B-plus. She knew David had worked hard, too. Was that woman flat out impossible to please? Biting her lip, she began to skim through the comments Miss Raydor had left on David's paper. Some grammatical and spelling stuff. A few questions and observations here and there, and at the end, a little note that read: _Mr. Gabriel, this is a fine effort on your first essay. I am confident your next one will be even better. Grade: B+._

"Huh," David said, and she looked up to see that he was flipping through her paper too. "She wrote a lot more on yours than she did on mine."

Brenda, who hadn't bothered to look at anything besides her grade, looked over David's hand at her paper. He was right. Miss Raydor had practically filled the margins with red ink.

"A-minus," David mused as he looked at the final page. "Wonder what made yours better." He smirked. "I guess I'll type mine up next time."

"Oh, give that here," Brenda said, and grabbed it from him, surrendering his own essay back to him. "What did everybody else make?"

"Pretty sure we'll find out," David said.

They did. Nearly everybody at Trig—because most of the honors students took the same classes—was talking about the grades before class began.

"A C," Trish groaned as she stuffed it into her backpack. "I knew it was terrible. My mom's gonna kill me."

"I made a B-minus," Noah said. "And I was still writing it at breakfast before it was due." He pumped his fist. "Go, me."

"What about you, Mike?" David asked.

Michael Tao turned his despairing gaze on them all. "A-minus," he said.

Everyone whistled. "Our first A," Grace said.

"A-minus," Mike repeated. "Not an A."

"Well, did anybody make an A?" Grace asked. No hands went up. Brenda started to feel a little better.

But only a little. She'd worked so hard, harder than she ever had on a history essay. Was Mike's really as good as hers? He probably wouldn't let her read it. He seemed just as embarrassed about his performance as she was. Meanwhile, Noah didn't even seem to care, and Trish had accepted a C as her just reward. What was wrong with people?

That night, Brenda had to confess to her parents what had happened. She hung her head low at her father's disappointed expression. Thank goodness she'd never told him about that first quiz.

"Well," he said, "you'll just do better next time."

"Yes, sir," Brenda said.

"You said she wrote a lot on your essay," her mother said, sounding encouraging. "What did she say? Did she tell you how to improve?"

Brenda blushed. "I haven't read her comments yet. I, uh, I haven't had time." Or the stomach for it.

Willie Rae looked exasperated. "Well, why don't we do that right now, together."

There was no getting around it. With her mother sitting next to her on the couch, Brenda read through Miss Raydor's comments on her paper. They weren't quite what she was expecting.

_Alex.'s empire did not survive his death; do you think he was truly successful?_

_What 1__st__ inspired you to make the connection between these 2 men?_

_Analysis of Gov. R's tax policy here is not in keeping w/your thesis, how might you refine it?_

_Are you saying it is a good thing that the USA is also a kind of empire? You seem ambivalent._

And more of the same. By the end, Brenda's head was spinning again. What kind of grading system was this? Just asking questions, as if Brenda was going to call her on the phone and answer them? The paper was finished, for heaven's sake.

Like David, Brenda got a little note at the end of her essay: _This is very impressive, Miss Johnson. You need to focus your analysis a little more tightly in places, but on the whole, good work. Please consider actually voicing these kinds of observations in class. They would contribute a great deal. Your references are also good. Grade: A-._

"Why, that's not bad at all," Willie Rae said, sounding surprised. "It sounds like she thinks a lot of you, really."

"Then she ought to have given me an A," Brenda protested.

"Well, I don't know, I think she's right about what she said." Willie Rae frowned over the paper. "It seems fair. Your daddy's right, you'll do better next time. But what does she mean about voicing things in class?" She gave Brenda a stern look. "You do participate, don't you, Brenda Leigh?"

"Um—I—" Brenda coughed. "I just don't have a lot to say, that's all."

Willie Rae waved the paper. "Looks like you've got plenty to say to me."

Brenda squirmed miserably. "It's not a big deal, Momma. Really."

Willie Rae frowned in puzzlement, looking at the essay again. "I wonder what she thinks of Ronald Reagan. I can't really work it out from what she wrote."

"Bet she hates him," Brenda muttered. "She's a libbie."

"Brenda Leigh!" Willie Rae sounded shocked. "What a thing to say!"

"Well, she's always talking about women and such, about how the ancient Greeks never let them outside of the house and all. Nobody else talks about that."

"That is no reason to call somebody names. I'm surprised at you. It seems to me that your teacher is doing a lot for you. So you just go back and work on your homework and be thinking about that." Brenda tried not to pout. "You've got your German test on Thursday. Are you ready?"

Brenda managed a wan smile. "_Ja, Mutter. Ich bin zu allem bereit._"

* * *

TBC. Feedback is most welcome!


	4. Chapter 4

_Previously..._

"Bet she hates him," Brenda muttered. "She's a libbie."

"Brenda Leigh!" Willie Rae sounded shocked. "What a thing to say!"

"Well, she's always talking about women and such, about how the ancient Greeks never let them outside of the house and all. Nobody else talks about that."

"That is no reason to call somebody names. I'm surprised at you. It seems to me that your teacher is doing a lot for you. So you just go back and work on your homework and be thinking about that." Brenda tried not to pout. "You've got your German test on Thursday. Are you ready?"

Brenda managed a wan smile. "_Ja, Mutter. Ich bin zu allem bereit._"

* * *

She wasn't, though. She was ready for the test, sure, but not ready for everything else. She definitely wasn't ready to be standing outside the history classroom door just past dark o'clock, but here she was.

Her father always dropped her off at school on the way to work. He'd had to get going a little earlier than usual today, so that meant Brenda was one of the first people to arrive. On mornings like this, she usually went to the cafeteria, sat at an empty table, and studied a bit more. Sometimes her mother even let her take some coffee (cream, three sugars) in a thermos if she had to get going extra early. Brenda didn't relish losing the sleep, but there was something kind of enjoyable about having this quiet time to herself.

Today, though, she didn't go to the cafeteria. Instead, she found herself heading towards the history classroom. And she was fidgeting in the hallway when Miss Raydor rounded the corner in her high heels, bulging teacher-bag in one hand and key in the other. She stopped in surprise when she saw Brenda. "Miss Johnson?"

Brenda managed a sullen shrug, and then, "Hey."

Miss Raydor frowned as she approached and fitted the key into the lock. "Is something the matter?"

"No. I'm just here early."

"Okay," Miss Raydor said slowly as she opened the door, and nodded for Brenda to precede her into the room. Well, wasn't that just ever so gracious. Brenda was already regretting this, but she'd look even stupider if she turned around and left now.

It was nearly half an hour until class began. What had she been thinking? She could have been nice and alone at a cafeteria table, working on her English homework as people slowly began to drift in, until the school was loud with noise and the day was ready to start. Instead she was...here. She must have gone crazy in the head.

She sat down in her usual seat and took out her English textbook while Miss Raydor unpacked her bag, opening the door to the rear supply closet and taking a few thick folders back there. What did a history teacher need with a supply closet, anyway? It wasn't like Miss Raydor taught art or science where she actually needed the space.

"What are you working on?" Miss Raydor asked as she emerged back into the classroom, her hands empty.

Brenda paused in the act of turning a page. "English," she said.

"Mm." Miss Raydor took a small leather-bound notebook out of her enormous bag. It looked like a day planner. "Mr. Taylor said you were working on Sidney this week. And you're due to recite something next month?"

Brenda pressed her lips together and nodded. Mr. Taylor wasn't her favorite teacher. He wasn't nearly as bad as Miss Raydor, though, and nobody could deny that he had a flair for big speeches and flowery words.

"Yeah," she said.

"Have you chosen your piece?" Miss Raydor glanced briefly at her, and Brenda unaccountably got a chill, then a flush of heat, all over her body.

"No," she said shortly. "How come I didn't make an A on my essay?"

Miss Raydor raised her eyebrows, and then her lips quirked up. "I wondered if that's why you were here so early."

"It's not," Brenda snapped. "My father dropped me off early because he had to go to work. I just wanna know, that's all."

Miss Raydor nodded. "Fair enough." She closed her planner and peered at Brenda over the rims of her glasses, resting her chin on the back of one slender hand. "Did you think about the questions I asked?"

"I…a little. Not much since yesterday, I haven't had time." Brenda crossed her arms.

"Did all my comments make sense to you? Did you disagree with any of them?"

"No. I don't guess so. Listen, I just want to know why I didn't make an A."

"That's all you care about?" Miss Raydor narrowed her eyes. "The grade?"

Brenda scowled. "My parents care about my grades too. And so do colleges. Didn't you say you wanted to help people get into those?"

Miss Raydor leaned back in her chair and began tapping the tip of her pen against her desk. "There's no need to go on the attack, Miss Johnson. We can talk about your essay, or we can talk about something else."

"Something else? What else would I want to talk to you about?"

Miss Raydor blinked, as if she thought that was a good question, too. "Well, you tell me."

"What was wrong with my essay?"

"You didn't adequately explore all the issues you raised," Miss Raydor said promptly. "I admired your ambition in choosing the topic, but you bit off just a little more than you could chew."

"I bet you just don't like Ronald Reagan."

Miss Raydor raised an eyebrow. "How I feel about Reagan is not germane to this discussion," she said. "And frankly, after reading your essay, I wasn't totally sure how you felt about him either, which was also a problem."

"Well, I—I—" Brenda wasn't sure how to explain without sounding like a dummy. How could she tell someone like Miss Raydor that the more she learned about something, the less simple it seemed? "I think he's a great man."

"So you said. Repeatedly. But your actual analysis of him was more complex and nuanced than that, and you sometimes contradicted yourself." Miss Raydor gave her a small smile. Brenda's heart began galloping like a horse. "I prefer the complexity, Miss Johnson. Don't try to put a square peg in a round hole just because you think you should."

Brenda stared at her, and then shook her head. "Wait. So do you think I was right or not?"

"I think you need to make up your own mind and then communicate that to your audience," Miss Raydor said.

"But I did! I have made up my mind. I just told you what I thought."

"Here and now, yes. In the paper, no." Miss Raydor tilted her head to the side. "Do you have the essay with you? We can go over my comments, if you like."

An image flashed into Brenda's mind: sitting next to Miss Raydor at her desk, shoulders pressed together while they read Brenda's paper, as close as could be. Close enough to smell that cologne. Miss Raydor's calm, precise voice murmuring explanations in Brenda's ear.

"Yeah," Brenda heard herself whisper. "I have it right here, w-we can do that." She bent down to her backpack, feeling as if she was dreaming, her fingers shaking as they fumbled with the zipper. What was she doing? What was she thinking? No—it wasn't a big deal—of course it wasn't, just sitting down with a teacher to, to…

"All right," Miss Raydor said, and rose to her feet. She rounded her desk and seated herself in the student desk on Brenda's left, where Sam Peckendorf usually sat. Then she scooted the desk so that it pointed more towards Brenda; the metal discs on the bottom of the chair legs rasped unpleasantly against the floor tiles.

Oh. Well, this was—it was what it was, it wasn't anything at all, it was nothing, Brenda told herself as she rooted more frantically in her backpack. She found the essay wedged between two of her notebooks, looking considerably more battered than it had yesterday. The little black strings were coming untied.

Miss Raydor extended her hand. Brenda inhaled, caught the smell of—

"How come you wear men's scent?" she demanded as Miss Raydor took her essay.

It didn't take a psychologist, or even a particularly smart person, to read the astonishment on Miss Raydor's face. "I'm sorry?"

Brenda snatched her hand back and curled against her seat like a tortoise withdrawing into its shell. "Nothing. I just wondered, never mind, there's my essay."

Miss Raydor gave her a level stare and said flatly, like she was talking to a huge idiot, "I wear it because I like the way it smells." Then, without another word, she turned to look at Brenda's essay, her lips pursing in concentration. She didn't have a very full mouth. She had little bitty ears. She always wore the same pearl stud earrings. And thank all the saints in heaven that nobody else had heard Brenda Leigh ask her about her perfume.

"To begin," Miss Raydor said, looking at her first comment, "do you really think Alexander's empire was successful?"

"I didn't say it was," Brenda said, scrambling back to herself. "I said he was. That's not the same thing."

"No?" Miss Raydor tapped her chin and glanced briefly at Brenda. "_L'Etat, c'est moi._ Louis the Fourteenth of France. It means 'I am the State'."

"Well, I wasn't talking about Louis the Fourteenth of France," Brenda snapped. "I was talking about Alexander the Great, who wasn't the same guy."

Miss Raydor gave her that level stare again. "Please remember what I told you about adjusting your attitude."

Brenda swallowed and dug her fingernails into her palms as she tried to maintain eye contact. Why did Miss Raydor wear glasses, anyway? She never heard of contact lenses?

"Fine," she gritted. "Louis the Fourteenth, or whatever."

Miss Raydor sighed. "My only point is that it's hard to separate Alexander's legend from his legacy. _Was _he the empire? He was very careful about preserving his own mystique. He had to set himself apart from everyone else. It must have been very isolating."

"Well, he had that friend of his," Brenda pointed out at once. "Hephaestion." Miss Raydor looked surprised again, and Brenda tried not to gloat too obviously. That was something she'd discovered on her own just by reading the Enyclopedia Britannica—easy as pie.

But to Brenda's surprise, Miss Raydor just chuckled, and even sounded a little sly when she said, "Yes, indeed, he did have Hephaestion. Who would you suppose is Governor Reagan's equivalent?"

"Huh?"

Miss Raydor shook her head, still wearing a tiny smile that suggested an inside joke, a secret. It made Brenda's heart start hopping again. "Never mind. I just think that if you want to separate Alexander from his empire, then think about the kind of legacy he wanted to build. Did he intend for everything to fall apart when he died?"

"Probably not, but that doesn't mean he didn't do a lot of good," Brenda protested. "Are you saying because it didn't last, he shouldn't even have tried?"

Miss Raydor blinked. "I am not saying that, no."

"Should we only try to do great things if we think they're gonna last forever?" Brenda stabbed her finger against her desk. "You have to do what's right for right now, you can't always be worrying about what comes after, what kind of thinking is that?"

Miss Raydor's eyebrows went up again. "I can see why you admire Reagan," she said dryly.

"Ha!" Brenda cried, pointing at her. "I knew you didn't! That's why I didn't make an A!"

She hadn't even meant it to be nasty or anything. Not really. She was just—overexcited. But Miss Raydor didn't bother trying to hide her look of disgust. Suddenly, Brenda felt about two inches tall.

"Miss Johnson," Miss Raydor said in a clipped voice, "you wrote a very good paper that was almost excellent. You were hampered by flaws in your argument that I have explained. That's it." She gave Brenda's paper back to her. "And you do not seem to be very interested in talking about it."

"No, I…I just—"

"Good morning, Miss Raydor!" two girly voices trilled in tandem. Miss Raydor and Brenda turned to behold Grace and Amy tripping into the room, wearing identical brilliant smiles. They both stopped dead when they saw Brenda sitting there, almost knocking each other over.

Miss Raydor's cold frown was already gone as she smiled on two of her favorite suck-ups. "Good morning, ladies. How are you?"

"Oh, we're great, you just won't believe what happened last night at The Varsity, some guys from Grady High showed up and—"

Brenda could scarcely believe the cold, miserable feeling she got while she listened to Amy chattering away beneath Miss Raydor's benevolent regard. It was stupid, but for a second, it had seemed almost like they were going to talk about something interesting, maybe even something important. Until Miss Raydor had to go and be oversensitive.

But if she'd rather sit there and listen to those two Chatty Cathys nattering on about gossip, then that was her prerogative. Brenda jammed her essay back into her bookbag, hearing the pages tear.

Then Trish and Amy stopped yapping at Miss Raydor in favor of yapping at each other for a few seconds. Before she could think better of it, Brenda used the pause to mutter, "Good luck talkin' to them about Alexander."

Miss Raydor, in the act of getting up from the desk, looked down at Brenda with wide eyes. But Brenda couldn't handle that, she needed just a few more minutes before she could face that contempt again, and she dropped her gaze to the pages of her English book, still open on her desk.

After another second, Miss Raydor's heels clicked away to return to her own desk. Trish and Amy had taken their own seats and were still talking. Brenda took a deep breath and concentrated on the sonnet she hadn't managed to finish last night. She'd made it about halfway through before getting too sleepy (and bored) to continue. She pursed her lips and found the last line she'd read.

_Virtue, awake: beauty but beauty is;_

_I may, I must, I can, I will, I do_

_Leave following that, which it is gain to miss._

_Let her go. Soft, but here she comes. Go to,_

_Unkind, I love you not-: Oh me, that eye_

_Doth make my heart give to my tongue the lie._

Brenda rolled her eyes, happy to come back to her senses with Sir Philip Sidney's help. Talk about a glutton for punishment. He loved Stella, he loved her not, boo hoo, and just when he'd made up his mind one way or the other, he let her change it back for him. Always going on and on about how cruel she was. Mr. Taylor seemed to think it was very romantic.

Brenda couldn't see for the life of her what was romantic about getting your chain yanked all the time. If Fritz ever treated her like that, she'd drop him like a hot potato.

Miss Raydor laughed. Brenda looked up before she could help herself, to see her perched on the edge of her desk, smiling at whatever asinine thing Amy had just said. Meanwhile, here came Trish and Noah too, and Brenda could hear the hallway outside coming to life with more students just to add to the din.

Miss Raydor glanced over and saw Brenda watching her. She raised her eyebrows, but again, Brenda looked away, packing up her English book and getting out her history book instead.

So much for a nice, quiet morning. It was back to business as usual: sitting in history class for an hour and holding her tongue until it was over. Because no matter what kind of comments she got on her essay, Brenda knew she didn't have anything to say that Miss Raydor really wanted to hear.

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**End Part One**

Feedback is most welcome! And thanks so much to everyone who's already read and reviewed. It keeps me going, and I really appreciate it!


	5. Chapter 5

**Part II: Toil and Trouble**

Brenda didn't make the same mistake again. For the next three weeks, if she got to school early, she spent her time in the cafeteria. After class, she headed straight to the football field to run drills with her cheerleaders, welcoming the need for absolute concentration. When people were jumping and flying and being dropped there was no excuse for inattention.

The football season had gotten off to a good start. They were winning. Fritz was one of the best guys on the team this year, and Brenda was proud of him, proud to be seen with him. All the girls were jealous and told her how lucky she was.

Yes, sir. Things were going just fine now.

The weather was improving, too, as Georgia headed into October. The oppressive heat and humidity lifted. The leaves turned becoming shades of red and yellow. Small wonder, then, that people started spending more time out of doors after school.

Even teachers. One sunny afternoon on the football field, Brenda bent down to tie her sneaker, and when she looked back up, she glanced towards the bleachers and saw two new people sitting in the stands: one, the French teacher Madame Blaine, and the other, Miss Raydor.

Her heart began to race and she gulped. Oh, no. Miss Raydor wasn't for before school or after school. She was for school only, inside the building, and that was hard enough to bear. Brenda shouldn't have to worry about her out here too! She'd never even come to any football games before, so why was she sitting in on practice now?

And what could Brenda do about it, anyway? Maybe she could ask Coach Pope to tell Miss Raydor to go away. He might do it, he liked Brenda pretty well.

"Brenda!" Coach Daniels called. "Look alive! What are you staring at?" Brenda turned to see that Coach Daniels had followed her gaze into the bleachers. "Oh. Huh. I guess she listened."

"What? W-who listened to what?"

Coach Daniels chuckled. "Amy and some of the other girls have been after Miss Raydor to watch them practice. She doesn't really come to any athletic events. I hope she starts—it's one of the ways you truly get to know a school." To Brenda's horror, Coach Daniels stood on her tiptoes and waved at Miss Raydor and Madame Blaine, who both waved back.

Noticing that Brenda had turned into a statue, Coach Daniels frowned at her. "What's the matter?" Brenda turned away. "Oh, come on. Is this about Miss Raydor again?"

"This isn't anything!" Brenda screeched. Coach Daniels's jaw dropped, and Brenda hastily modified her tone as she added, "Sorry, Coach, nothing's wrong. Everything's just fine."

She looked at her cheerleaders and put her hands on her hips, inhaling and exhaling deeply. Everything was just fine.

Until the end of practice, anyway, when Miss Raydor actually came down from the stands to chat with Coach Daniels and Amy and all the rest. Oh, Brenda would find some excuse to make those girls run laps, just see if she didn't. In the meantime, she sat down on a bench and looked with determination over the notes on Coach Daniels's clipboard.

"Very, very impressive, everyone," she heard Miss Raydor say. "I don't mind telling you that you almost gave me a heart attack or two, Miss Sykes."

Amy laughed. "Oh, we're always safe!"

"As safe as we can be," Coach Daniels interjected dryly. "You might notice all the giant padded mats lying around."

Miss Raydor laughed softly. "It was all that gave me peace of mind. How am I going to handle watching an actual game?"

"You're coming on Friday night?" squealed Grace, and Brenda just about threw up into a nearby bucket.

"I am," Miss Raydor confirmed, "though I can only stay through halftime. After that, I turn into a pumpkin."

"I don't think you'll be disappointed," Coach Daniels said, raising her voice a little. "Brenda's done amazing things with the squad this year."

Brenda froze. Then she raised her eyes in dread, knowing there was no escape. Sure enough, Miss Raydor was looking at her with a polite smile. The brisk air had turned her cheeks red. She'd put on a windbreaker over the suit, and she'd exchanged her high heels for sensible black Keds. Without the stilettos, she probably wasn't that much taller than Brenda.

"Congratulations, Miss Johnson," Miss Raydor said. "The squad's looking great."

"Well, thank you so much," Brenda said.

"Though I suppose," Miss Raydor continued, her eyes narrowing just the littlest bit, "Friday night will be the real test."

"Yeah," Brenda said. "I guess it will."

Coach Daniels didn't let the ensuing awkward silence go on for too long before she asked Miss Raydor about why Madame Blaine had been up in the stands with her.

Brenda looked back down at the clipboard, but she clearly heard Miss Raydor say, "Madame Blaine and I are plotting something." Ooh, how _mysterious._ "Interested parties will hear the details soon enough." Disinterested parties would too, Brenda was sure. Miss Raydor's little clique wouldn't stop talking about this until all was revealed, and probably after that, too. Why did she have to go and tantalize everybody like that?

Thankfully, Miss Raydor departed soon after, and although Brenda got the stink-eye from Coach Daniels, a reprimand didn't follow. After the squad scattered for the day, Brenda loitered around the field, enjoying the fading sunlight and waiting for Fritz to emerge from the locker room. When he came out, his hair was still damp from the showers and sort of endearingly tousled. She kissed his cheek. "Ready to head home?"

"Sure," he said, putting his arm around her. Sometimes it was a little awkward, him being so tall. "How was practice?"

"Fine, fine," Brenda said.

"Thought I saw you-know-who talking to the girls."

Brenda growled. "She oughta stay away from my squad. As if we need the distraction!"

Just then, Coach Pope passed them and gave them a friendly wave. "Looking good out there today, Johnson."

"Thank you, Coach!"

"So was the squad," he chuckled, winked, nodded at Fritz, and kept going, outpacing them with his rapid strides.

"Speaking of distractions," Fritz said sourly.

Brenda laughed. "He's just playing around."

"I don't notice him playing around with the other guys' girls. Keep an eye on him, okay? He's a good coach, but kind of a creep."

Brenda nodded, but she was stuck on the words _the other guys' girls. _She guessed that's what she was—Fritz's girl. Which would make Fritz her guy, she supposed. And he was jealous of her, that much was clear, which was both sort of flattering and sort of annoying. She didn't really understand it. Brenda might sometimes get jealous of achievement or success, but not of people. It seemed so pointless.

"So we're still on for Saturday night, right?" Fritz asked, breaking into her reverie.

Brenda turned back to him, relieved to leave those thoughts behind. "Oh yes. Momma says you can come 'round for dinner and cake and such at about six o'clock." She smiled at him. "Then we can go out, just you and me."

"It's your eighteenth," Fritz said. "Seems like you could do better than dinner with your parents and a movie with me. You sure you don't want a party? I can talk to Andy, we can always use his basement. A ton of people would want to come."

"No, no, no," Brenda said at once. "I don't want any of that. I don't like parties, you know that. Shouldn't I do something on my birthday I like?"

"Sure you should. Or how about before your birthday?" Fritz glanced back over his shoulder at Miss Raydor, too. "After all, Friday night's your last chance to kill her and not be tried as an adult."

Brenda's laugh came out a little higher pitched and more breathless than she would have expected. "Don't tempt me," she said. "Did you know she's going to be there? At the game? What on earth for, that's what I want to know." Although she already knew what for—because her little harem had been pestering her. Apparently they didn't get enough of her in the mornings and during free period. Honestly, Brenda was surprised they didn't follow her home. Wherever that was—where did she live, anyway? Probably didn't have a house yet, if she was new here, and the nearest apartment block was…

"Does it matter?" Fritz asked. Brenda almost jumped. "She won't exactly be hanging around on the sidelines."

"Hmph," Brenda said. "I wouldn't put it past her."

"Well, I don't want to see you fall off the top of that pyramid at halftime. Don't let her get to you." Fritz didn't sound as if he was joking.

And Brenda thought, right up until the game on Friday, that he was asking the impossible of her. Her concentration in history was even worse than usual, because all she could think about when she saw Miss Raydor was how that woman was poking herself into yet another part of Brenda's life like she had a right. And on Friday, if they screwed up…if they weren't absolutely perfect…Brenda knew she'd never live it down. But how was she supposed to do her best if she spent all this time and energy worrying about _not_ doing her best?

Friday night rolled around. Her mother kissed her on the cheek at the entrance to the locker rooms and promised to cheer as loudly as she could from the stands—so loudly that Brenda would be sure to hear her. And as the cheerleaders gathered on the field, ready to greet the football team with manic enthusiasm, Brenda couldn't help scanning the stands. Sure enough, two rows back and near the center, sat Willie Rae and Clay, applauding.

No sign of that woman. Brenda blinked. Nope, Miss Raydor did not seem to be here. Good. Good, good, good! Oddly enough, though, Grace and Amy and all the rest didn't even seem to notice her absence—they were stretching, getting ready, talking about the game, like Brenda ought to be. Realizing her lapse, she felt ashamed of herself.

At the end of the first half, the game was a tie. Brenda had been cheering as loudly as she could whenever she saw Fritz, although of course he wouldn't really be paying attention, might not even hear her. The important thing was that she could tell him she'd done it later. Morale and warm fuzzies and whatnot.

Speaking of morale, it was time to boost some, so Brenda and her cheerleaders hustled out onto the field, getting into formation. This was the season's biggest game so far, when they faced off against Grady High. The crowd was already going nuts.

So after lots of flips and jumps, by the time Brenda stood atop her pyramid, she felt as if she were buoyed by a hundred thousand cheers. She held one arm straight up over her head, fist clenched, and rested the other on her hip. Then she drew one knee almost up to her chest—felt Maggie down below grip her ankle reassuringly—and held the pose. Picture perfect. The stadium lights burned into her eyes, rendering the crowd invisible, until all she could see was the glow and all she could hear was the roar.

"Hup!" she heard Coach Daniels say, and then she reached down to grab Amy's hand on her left and Grace's on her right. They gripped each other, held tight. "One TWO, three FOUR," Daniels shouted, and Brenda released Amy and Grace so they could vault forward in a somersault, just in time to be caught below by four other girls.

"Five SIX," Daniels called, "seven EIGHT," and the hands holding Brenda's ankles and feet pushed her upwards until she was airborne. She pulled her legs up into a split kick, touched her own toes, and fell back down, where a brace of arms caught her before she hit the ground, lifting her and pushing her back on to her feet. The pyramid broke, and the girls all fell into line, clapping and doing high-kicks, punching the air.

"Good job, girls! Well done!" Daniels said, clapping. "Good hustle!"

Good job indeed, Brenda thought, but she could have gotten a little more height on that jump, and had Donna's liftoff been a little weak? But on the whole, she thought it had gone well. A great halftime show for the most important game of the season so far.

As she was toweling off her neck, she asked Coach Daniels, "What did you think of the altitude? I think we can get a little more height than that, don't you? Although it was kinda hard for me to see from up there…"

"Yeah, you got a little more lift during practice. It's okay, though—we'll work on it and do better next time." Daniels smiled and patted her shoulder. "Seriously, it went great. You looked like you were having the time of your life up there."

"Yes, well," Brenda said, remembering her father's favorite TV show, "I love it when a plan comes together." Daniels grinned, and this time gave Brenda's shoulder a playful punch. Brenda laughed back.

She returned to the bench, intending to pour herself a cup of water from the big orange cooler, when she saw it: four of her cheerleaders gathered at the foot of the bleachers and talking to a couple in the front row. Brenda squinted.

Miss Raydor and some man.

He had his arm around her shoulders.

Brenda stormed forward, water forgotten. As she approached the bleachers, she saw that Miss Raydor was wearing the windbreaker, plus jeans and sneakers, although her hair was still in a bun. The man was dressed pretty much the same. He was okay looking, Brenda guessed. Didn't seem too fat or too skinny. Not really cute or anything. A little older than Miss Raydor, maybe, and he could stand a haircut. There was something about his face Brenda didn't like. Maybe his nose?

"All right, y'all, look alive," she barked at her cheerleaders, but she never took her eyes off the happy couple. "Let's stop botherin' folks and get back to the bench."

"Oh, Brenda, come on," complained Grace, who was going to be running laps first thing tomorrow.

"The team'll be back on the field any second. Get ready to cheer."

"This is Miss Raydor's _boy-friend_," sing-songed Amy, batting her eyelashes at Miss Raydor, who seemed entirely unfazed.

"Afraid so," the man agreed, as if Brenda had expressed any curiosity at all. "Visiting from up north. You're the squad captain?"

"Yes, sir," Brenda said stiffly.

"Is she one of your students, honey?" he asked, turning to Miss Raydor. The girls giggled.

Miss Raydor kept looking right at Brenda as she said, "Yes, she is. In my honors history class." Then she shrugged, and he took his arm off her shoulders, sliding his hand down to rub her back instead.

Okay, maybe nothing was wrong with his nose, but his eyes obviously weren't working too well. Miss Raydor did not want her boyfriend to be touching her right now. She had her hands clasped in her lap; her knees pressed together, her feet were pigeon-toed, and her shoulders hunched forward a little bit. It was the closest thing to a tell that Brenda had seen on her yet, even though she still had on that pleasant little smile that gave nothing away.

She was probably uncomfortable with being felt up in front of her students. For heaven's sake! Well, now she knew how it felt to have somebody looking at her in an intimate moment, didn't she?

But unlike Miss Raydor, Brenda did not enjoy watching a shameless display like this. Mr. Grabby was just going to have to keep his hands to himself while he was in her territory. And because this was her territory—because they weren't in a classroom or a hallway where she seethed with silent resentment—Brenda put her hands on her hips and said to Miss Raydor's boyfriend, "Knock it off, because this is a public place, and we got rules around here."

It could have been a joke, but she kept her voice dead serious as she glared at him, and only him.

The boyfriend's eyes widened, and he grinned, holding both hands up in the air in surrender. "Wow. Sorry, Captain. I didn't know."

"Now you do. Congratulations," Brenda said sweetly. She turned to her cheerleaders, who looked both shocked and thrilled at how Brenda was making a bigger ass of herself than ever before. "Now how about y'all come with me so we can get back to work?"

Then she turned and marched off without another word, without looking back, not daring to breathe until she heard their footsteps behind her.

"Oh my God, Brenda!" Amy said breathlessly into her ear. "I can't believe you said that! Did you see her face?"

"Nope," Brenda said, still not turning around. "I wasn't lookin'."

* * *

Thanks so much to everyone who's read and reviewed. Feedback is most welcome!


	6. Chapter 6

The next day, Brenda Leigh turned eighteen, and that night she celebrated it with Willie Rae's famous chicken pot pie, chocolate cake, and a torrid evening in the back seat of Fritz's car. They'd left halfway through the movie. Who cared about sitting through _10,_ anyway? Brenda didn't think it was all that funny, and apparently the sight of Bo Derek in a swimsuit had worked poor Fritz up enough that he was more than willing to hightail it out of the theater to neck.

So they'd found a nice secluded spot at the back of the parking lot, locked the doors, and now Brenda's fingers were tracing Fritz's zipper while his breath caught in his throat.

"You sure?" he rasped.

Brenda's face heated up. "N-no more than this," she managed. "You just…just show me what to do with my hand. Okay?"

"More than okay," he groaned as they managed to get the zipper over his erection. It seemed vaguely fitting to Brenda that she should celebrate her majority by passing some kind of milestone, and giving her boyfriend her first handjob appeared to qualify. It felt deliciously naughty, and he was putty in her hands, and nobody was nearby, nobody would see or know. Together, they slid his jeans down over his hips, and for the first time, she saw his penis as he slid it through the hole in his white briefs. He gasped when she traced her fingertips over it.

She hadn't expected how hot it would be, how stiff, nor how deeply this would affect Fritz, whose whole body was as tense as strung wire the whole time. He showed her, with surprising restraint, how to rub and when to squeeze. And before matters progressed too far, he gave her a handkerchief. She wasn't sure why, but when the moment came and she had to save them both from getting splattered with all his _stuff, _she figured it out.

She managed not to laugh, or say "ew," as Fritz collapsed back against the seat, panting, mouth wide open and eyes squeezed shut. "Wow," he managed after a second.

"Good?" Brenda asked, knowing that it had been, but preferring to hear it straight from the horse's mouth.

"Yeah." He opened his eyes and smiled at her. "Real good."

The smile held less satisfaction and more affection than she had expected. He reached up to trace his thumb over her cheek. And his glow—which had been sorta turning Brenda on, a little bit—suddenly made her uncomfortable. For goodness' sake, it had been a handjob, not a declaration of eternal love.

She cleared her throat. "We should get goin'."

He blinked. "Huh? Come on, not yet."

"Why not?"

"Well…" He put his hand on her thigh, on top of her skirt. "Don't you want your turn?"

Brenda's face started burning again. "My turn?"

"Fair's fair." He was starting to look a little embarrassed. "I'm not selfish, you know. I'd like to try. Make you feel good." He squeezed her thigh. "I mean, don't you wanna know what it's like?"

Brenda knew perfectly well what it was like. She'd been enjoying furtive sessions under her bedcovers since she was fourteen. She was pretty sure Fritz wasn't going to catch on that quickly, and the back seat of his car was starting to feel cramped. Plus…that look on his face. She wasn't sure she wanted to encourage that look.

She ducked her head, knowing he would mistake it for maidenly modesty, and would probably like that. "Maybe next time. Okay?"

"But…"

"I don't need it, Fritz, honest I don't. I enjoyed doing it to you. That's plenty. I promise. Maybe next time," she repeated.

He looked a little disappointed, but not put out. Then again, why should he be put out, when she'd just melted all his brain cells into goo? Brenda decided, then and there, that the triumph of that moment more than made up for not getting her own satisfaction. Suddenly she felt weirdly initiated into something, a mystery of adulthood, something women did to men.

And yet when she looked at herself in her bathroom mirror that night, she didn't appear all that different. Certainly her parents hadn't been able to see anything, thank goodness. Even so, Fritz had been too nervous to come inside, as if he thought Clay might be waiting with the shotgun after all.

Brenda, freshly an adult, got into bed and stared at the ceiling. Church tomorrow morning. That would be something. She kept waiting for the guilt to strike, but nothing happened. Sure, her parents would have disapproved of the way she'd touched Fritz, but—that didn't mean it wasn't the natural course of things. It wasn't like Brenda had let herself go completely like a loose girl. She wasn't going to get pregnant. She heard the cheerleaders whispering and giggling about this sort of thing all the time, it was just something people did, and even if she'd never whisper and giggle herself…

At any rate. Brenda let her mind wander, even as she let her hand wander beneath the sheets, sliding underneath her nightie and into her panties. She remembered Fritz's face, illuminated from the glow of the streetlamp two parking spaces down—the effort and the ecstasy on it. His grunts and gasps, and that final cry. Here, without him watching her, it was easy to let the memory arouse her, and she sighed through her nose as she rubbed herself. Oh, this was nice, this was just ever so nice. Maybe some day she would let him do this, see if it could be better with two people than one.

Yes. Probably all men and women did this. Probably even—

Brenda gulped and tried to concentrate on her own hand, on how her fingers were smaller and more dexterous than Fritz's, how she already knew what worked best. And now she knew firsthand (so to speak) that her body was more complicated than his. There wasn't just one thing to grab. This spot felt better than that, and she was more sensitive higher up than lower down, and right here, this little button right here, oh, yes…

Were all women this way? Was there this much to every woman, did they all respond the same, needing a little more time and care? She began to rub a little harder and faster, shivering beneath the covers. And were men really good at this? She supposed practice had to help. Getting to know the lady really well: what she liked, how she wanted to be touched.

And all of a sudden, behind Brenda's closed eyelids, Miss Raydor cringed beneath the hand of her boyfriend.

Brenda gasped and froze.

Then, in her imagination, Miss Raydor's own eyes closed and the boyfriend's hand slid down her side, wandered to squeeze her thigh, pushed at her knee, encouraged her legs to part. She was wearing that houndstooth skirt instead of the jeans. She didn't look reluctant any more, no, she'd been persuaded, she _wanted _it—her head tilted back and her lips parted—

Brenda yanked her hand out from her underwear and pressed herself flat against her mattress as if shrinking from an unseen foe. Her head spun. For heaven's sake! What was that? What business did Brenda have thinking about that woman and her boyfriend doing anything at all?

Was Miss Raydor never going to give her any peace, even here, even now?

Thoroughly disgusted and out of sorts, Brenda flopped over on her side and glared at her alarm clock. 11:59. The last minute of her birthday. Well, wasn't this just dandy? Thinking about Miss Raydor, instead of dreaming about her own handsome, gentle boyfriend who treated her so sweetly.

Oh. Wait. There it was.

The guilt.

* * *

Oddly enough, she got through church just fine the next day. It was Monday morning she came to dread, even more than usual. Not just because Miss Raydor always got under her skin, not even because of what had happened in her bed on Saturday, but because it had finally dawned on Brenda that maybe—just maybe—Miss Raydor wouldn't be too thrilled about how Brenda had told her boyfriend off. Amy had said something about the look on her face, after all, and they'd apparently left at halftime, just as Miss Raydor had said they would. She might be mad. Really mad.

But in class, Miss Raydor was as inscrutable as ever. She didn't see inclined to snap, scold, or even glare. If anything, she looked Brenda's way less often than usual. Practically ignored her existence.

By the time class was over, Brenda's left hand ached from the way she'd been digging her fingernails into the wood of her desk.

She should be relieved, of course, that she was going to escape unscathed. But Brenda found herself lingering after class was over, taking her time packing everything into her bookbag, just so she could pause by Miss Raydor's desk after everyone else had left and say: "So, did your boyfriend enjoy the game?"

For one second, Brenda thought she saw lightning flash in Miss Raydor's green eyes, and she couldn't breathe. But then it faded, and Miss Raydor's lips quirked up.

"I believe he did," she said. "He certainly enjoyed meeting you."

Brenda blinked.

"He thought," Miss Raydor continued, "that you were very funny."

Brenda's eyes widened until they couldn't anymore. Miss Raydor made a noise that was sort of between a hum and a chuckle, and now her eyes gleamed with amusement.

But before Brenda could act—before she could grab that woman by the shoulders and just start shaking the daylights out of her—Fritz said from the hallway, "Brenda? You ready to go?"

She whipped around. The look on his face was both uncertain and hopeful. But whatever he saw on her own face made the hopefulness fade, and his eyes widened in clear alarm.

Brenda didn't look at Miss Raydor again. She didn't dare. She barged through the door, and didn't so much put her arm through Fritz's as she grabbed his elbow and began hauling him towards Trig. Instead of pestering her with questions, he said dryly, "Remember—tried as an adult."

As if Brenda needed reminding.

* * *

TBC. Feedback makes my day!


	7. Chapter 7

That week, they began preparing to give their recitations for English class. Brenda had not enjoyed the assignment, not least because Mr. Taylor insisted they make their own selections. They could do speeches, poems, or choose from a book of famous literary monologues: "Something that speaks to you. Express yourself!" Couldn't he just tell her what lines to parrot in front of everyone before she got to sit back down? She didn't have the time or patience for this fluffy-headed nonsense.

Fritz had figured his out pretty fast; he liked the "to be or not to be" speech. David was doing "The Road Not Taken." The cheerleaders almost uniformly wanted to do love poetry, and if Brenda never again had to hear Amy Sykes saying she wanted to compare somebody to a summer's day, it would be too soon.

As for Brenda, she'd settled on Psalm 23 because she already knew it by heart, and Mr. Taylor said that the Psalms were poetry, so they were okay. She figured she'd rehearse it a couple of times before class began, go in, volunteer to be first, and get it over with. Mr. Taylor seemed disappointed with her lack of enthusiasm and originality, but Brenda really couldn't be bothered with that. It wasn't her fault she didn't love literature.

But two days before the recitations were scheduled to start, she couldn't sleep. She lay awake long after she heard her parents go to bed, and then gave up and turned on her bedside lamp. She could read or study or something, but she was so full up on history and German that she couldn't take it anymore, and only a masochist would try to read about Trig or biology after midnight.

She found herself reaching for the book of monologues that Mr. Taylor had given them, and began flipping through it. Lots of Shakespeare, of course. Some apostrophe poems showed up too. And there was a really weird…something…called "Lucky's Speech" that Brenda read halfway through in horrified fascination before she couldn't take it anymore. She started turning pages, looking for something else to help her get it out of her head.

The book fell open at a random page, and she let her eyes drift over the passage idly, before realizing that it wasn't much more soothing than Lucky. It might even be worse. It was going to give her nightmares, probably. But this time, Brenda found that she couldn't look away. Her eyes kept getting wider, and her heart began to beat more quickly in her chest. Oh, wow. Why hadn't they ever read _this _in class? Why was it always dumb stuff about love and metaphors and such? This, she thought as she read, this was somebody who really felt something, who knew what it meant to want something. Nothing about summer days here.

She read it three more times before she decided she really needed to get some sleep. Anyway, she already had her recitation all set to go in two days, so this was pointless. It was just…interesting, that was all.

And interesting it might have remained, and no more, except that she did dream about it—not nightmares, not exactly—and woke up with a few of the lines dancing in her head. That had never happened before.

When she got to English class that day, she learned with disappointment that Mr. Taylor had put everybody on a schedule instead of allowing them to volunteer. She wouldn't be reciting until tomorrow. She supposed it didn't really matter whether she did it this day or the next, but still, she'd rather get it over with.

Fritz went second and did a respectable job as Hamlet, meaning he didn't forget any of the lines, even if he seemed too embarrassed to put much feeling into it. Brenda couldn't blame him, given the way that Noah and Sam were elbowing each other and snickering at him. Jocks could be such jerks sometimes. David decided to go the other direction, and hammed it up with Robert Frost, placing his hand over his heart and breathing, "And that has made all the difference," while everybody chuckled. Mr. Taylor looked less than pleased, but at least David had forestalled ridicule.

Brenda didn't care about ridicule, particularly. She was just bored. She sat up straight and paid attention to Fritz and David, but after that, she let her mind wander, barely managing not to drum her pen against the desk or tap her feet.

Might as well not let the time go completely to waste. _The Lord is my shepherd,_ she thought, _I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures…_

Trish stood up, cleared her throat, and said in a tremulous voice, "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…"

Brenda gritted her teeth. _He leadeth me beside still waters, He restoreth my soul… _

"I love thee through the depth and…bread and height my soul can reach," Trish continued, "when feeling out of sight, um, for the ends of being and ideal Grace. I, I love thee to the level of every day's most quiet need…"

Sort of listening to her, Brenda still managed to make it halfway through Psalm 23 by the time Trish concluded and then added, "And that's for my boyfriend Chad who's in the Air Force this year. He's overseas and I miss him so much."

"Ohhhh," everyone said, while Trish wiped her eyes before hurrying to her seat. Mr. Taylor looked a little glassy-eyed himself at that little revelation, and he led the applause. Brenda absentmindedly joined in while trying to figure out where she'd stopped last. The rod and the staff, she thought. Piece of cake.

But all the same, while she was waiting for her father to pick her up after school, Brenda found herself with her nose deep in that book, reading last night's monologue again, surprised to find that it hit her just as hard today. Like a long drink of cool water after all the other stuff.

She read it twice more before bed. No dreams this time. But goodness, did it give her chills.

The next morning, she arrived a few minutes early to history class, just in time to hear some terrible news.

"You're coming to watch?" Sam was asking Miss Raydor as Brenda walked through the door.

"Mr. Taylor invited me, yes," Miss Raydor said, "since so many of you are in his class and it's my free period. I'm sorry I missed yesterday, I would like to have seen that."

"I did Elizabeth Barrett Browning!" Trish volunteered. "You know, how do I love thee."

"Oh yes, that one," Miss Raydor said. "Well, I'm sure it was great."

"It was. I dedicated it to Chad."

"Oh. Imagine that."

"I'm going today," Amy said. "I'm doing a Shakespeare sonnet. The one about the summer's day."

"Yes, that's a lovely one," Miss Raydor said. "Are you ready?"

"Definitely." Amy turned to see Brenda frozen with horror in the doorway. Her smile turned positively reptilian as she said, "Brenda's going today too, aren't you, Brenda?"

Brenda managed, "Uh huh," as she headed for her seat. Oh no. This was not happening.

"And what are you reciting, Miss Johnson?" Miss Raydor asked politely.

Brenda looked in her eyes for a second before grunting, "Psalm 23," and dropping gracelessly into her chair.

"Hm," Miss Raydor said, turning back to Amy. "I'll look forward to hearing you all, of course."

"Wish us luck," Sam said.

Miss Raydor smiled. "Oh, no. Remember, in theater, we say 'break a leg.'"

Now there was a thought. Brenda could break a leg. Maybe she could break both of them. Then she'd have to go to the emergency room instead.

As luck would have it, though, Brenda was first on the list to recite today. That might work out okay. Maybe Miss Raydor would get held up by something. Maybe she'd miss it.

Brenda looked at Miss Raydor's profile and gulped, twisting her hands in her lap. _Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…_

Right. Right. Fear no evil. Now was not the time for stage fright. Brenda knew Psalm 23 forwards and backwards. She'd heard it all her life. There was no way she could possibly forget it.

But still, oh, why hadn't she re-read it over breakfast? She was going to look like an idiot, just an absolute idiot, and that woman was going to watch it all. As usual. And if she gave a darn about anything Brenda ever did, which she didn't, she'd get a huge kick out of it.

In third period, Brenda's hopes for a quick, early recital were dashed the instant Miss Raydor sidled into the classroom as the bell rang. Mr. Taylor stood up in front of everybody and said, "All right, boys and girls, attention please. It's the second day of monologues. As you can see, we have a guest today. Miss Raydor's agreed to sit in—I hear she used to be in the theater." He gave Miss Raydor an inquiring look.

Miss Raydor's cheeks turned the littlest bit red as she smiled graciously and sat down at an empty desk in the back of the classroom. "I did, yes, when I went to college. Just the school troupe."

"I see! So you all do your best acting." Taylor winked at the class. Then he said, "All right, Brenda Leigh, you're first up. What are you reciting for us today? Psalm 23, right?"

_Yea though I walk through the… _That wasn't how it started! _He leadeth me beside still…rod and staff...my cup runneth over, my head with oil, He…_

"Yeah," Brenda heard herself say. "I mean, yes, sir."

"Great. Well, up you go."

"Yeah," Brenda said again, standing up on shaking knees and walking to the front of the class, feeling as if none of this was quite real. She couldn't believe how dizzy she felt, how chilled, and how slowly time seemed to be moving. Pretend you're at a game, she told herself, that you're leading the cheers, you're the one in control—

But that was only pretend, and Brenda wasn't too good at playing pretend. And when she turned around, she saw that everybody's faces had blurred, taken on a strange and alien cast. Nothing sounded right because her heartbeat was too loud and hard in her ears. She couldn't feel the tips of her fingers.

"Whenever you're ready," Mr. Taylor prompted.

"Um," Brenda said.

In that whole sea of faces only one stood out. At the back of the classroom, Miss Raydor sat. She was leaning forward over the desk, her eyes intent on Brenda's face, and Brenda couldn't even remember what she was supposed to be doing or why she was standing up here.

Then, unseen by anyone, behind Mr. Taylor's back, Miss Raydor's mouth silently formed the words: _The Lord is my shepherd._

Brenda felt her own mouth go slack. Then she managed, "The…the Lord is…" before she trailed off.

"Brenda?" Mr. Taylor asked.

_My. Shepherd, _Miss Raydor mouthed.

Brenda took in a deep breath, clenched her hands into fists, and straightened her back before turning to look at him. "I changed my mind," she said. "I wanna do something else."

Mr. Taylor frowned. "Are you sure?" Then he sounded almost kind as he added, "If you need a few minutes to compose yourself, somebody else can go first."

At that, Brenda actually saw red for a few seconds. "No!" she snapped. "I mean, no, sir. I just have something else I'd rather do, is all. I found it at the last minute, but I know it already."

Now Mr. Taylor looked really surprised. "Okay," he said slowly. "Go ahead."

"Yes, sir. Thank you so much," Brenda said, looking back out over the classroom. The world became normal again. The ringing in her ears stopped. She could see people's faces again. Fritz looked worried.

He needn't be. Brenda threw her shoulders back, imagined those wonderful words printed on the page, and felt the thunder in her soul, that shock of recognition from the first time she'd ever read them.

"The raven himself is hoarse_,_" she said, "that croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan under my battlements. Come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here and fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full of direst cruelty…"

Truer words were never spoken. Brenda hadn't read the whole play, but she had a feeling Lady Macbeth wouldn't take anybody's nonsense. She heard her voice, without her volition, dropping into a growl of pure fury as she said, "Make thick my blood, stop up the access and passage to remorse, that no compunctious visitin's of nature shake my fell purpose nor keep peace between the effect and it!"

Yeah. Lady Macbeth wouldn't let anything stop her or stand in her way. Brenda let that same fell purpose fill her as she stared Miss Raydor down. Miss Raydor's expression did not change, nor did she take her own eyes from Brenda. Good. Brenda wasn't going to be ignored this time. Brenda was going to have every single ounce of her attention this time.

Because Brenda didn't need her help or her pity or anything else she might condescend to offer.

"Come to my woman's breasts_,_" she breathed, just daring some dumb boy to laugh, "And take my milk for gall, you murderin' ministers, wherever in your sightless substances you wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night, and pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, that my keen knife see not the wound it makes, nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark to cry, 'Hold, hold!'"

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Fritz and David glance at each other. Mr. Taylor had folded his arms. She hoped he wasn't mad, because even heaven wasn't gonna be able to slow down Lady Macbeth. And here her husband came. "Great Glamis! Worthy Cawdor!" She hoped she was pronouncing those right. "Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter! Thy letters have transported me beyond this ignorant present…"

Miss Raydor's eyes glittered behind her glasses.

"An' I feel now," Brenda concluded, breathless and rough, "the future in the instant."

Miss Raydor slowly leaned back in her chair. She crossed her legs.

Then they just stared at each other.

Mr. Taylor cleared his throat. Brenda startled. Miss Raydor blinked and shook her head.

"Well," Mr. Taylor said, raising his eyebrows at Brenda. "That was…"

Brenda immediately put on her brightest smile, recovering herself. "That was Lady Macbeth, sir!" she chirped, deciding it was time to lay on all the charm.

"Yeah," he said, wide-eyed. "I know. You said you learned it at the last minute?"

Why did he sound so surprised? Stage fright aside, it wasn't like memorizing things was hard. "Yes. We really oughta read that play, don't you think?"

"Maybe I'll teach it next year," he said feebly, raising his hands to clap. "Wow. Okay. Great job, Brenda. Everybody, let's give her a hand."

And the class applauded for her. Brenda saw that Fritz's and David's eyes were as big as dinner plates, but they looked impressed. Flush and tingling with triumph, she smiled and dropped a little curtsy. Then she bounced back to her desk without looking at Miss Raydor again.

"So, who's going to follow that act?" Mr. Taylor asked, looking at his list. "Ah. Amy Sykes. Ready to go, Amy?"

Amy looked like she'd just swallowed an entire lemon. Life, Brenda decided, didn't get any better than this.

Mr. Taylor's classroom timing was always good, and the bell rang just as the last monologue finished. That meant poor Mike Tao had to put up with a distracted round of applause while everyone began packing up to leave, but at least there was no thumb-twiddling or busy work required to fill up the time. Still gleeful, Brenda beamed at Fritz as she got out of her seat.

"Ready for lunch?" she asked.

"How come you changed your mind about doing the psalm?" he asked, looking confused and maybe even a little hurt. "I mean…" He glanced over towards the door, where Miss Raydor was talking to Mike.

Brenda's good feelings immediately vanished and she bristled. "What? I just changed my mind, that's all. Why's it matter?"

Fritz lowered his voice, nodding again towards Miss Raydor. "You were looking at her the whole time. I saw it. You looked really mad."

Oh. He'd noticed. She could tell him, Brenda thought. She could tell Fritz anything. She could tell him what Miss Raydor had done, or tried to do, and that would explain it.

"Don't be silly," she said instead. "It was only actin'."

His face closed off a little. "Okay," he said quietly. "If you say so."

"I do say so. There's no need to be so sensitive!" To soften her words, she reached out and ran a hand up and down his arm. "Besides, would you rather I look at you when I pretend to be Lady Macbeth?"

He snorted. "I guess not. She sounded pretty scary."

"Didn't she? I think I like her. I'll have to read the play sometime."

"Oh, yeah," he said. "That's you, all right. Taking time out of your busy schedule to sit down and read a book." She punched his arm, and he laughed. "Listen, can I meet you at lunch? I wanna see if I can go find Coach Pope real fast."

"Sure, sure," Brenda said generously, relieved that the little storm had blown over, and she waved as he took off through the door. What a silly thing for Fritz to get upset about. He was usually so level-headed. She liked that about him.

She shouldered her backpack and got to the door, but just as she was about to make her escape, Mike said, "Thank you, ma'am," and left, leaving Miss Raydor standing there by herself and Brenda face-to-face with her. Mr. Taylor was busy talking to Noah on the other side of the room.

They regarded one another silently. Heat prickled all over Brenda's skin. Then Miss Raydor said, "That was excellent."

"I didn't need you to help me cheat," Brenda said.

Miss Raydor's lips thinned. She said, "People forget their lines all the time in the theater, Miss Johnson. Spotters can prompt—"

"This isn't the theater," Brenda spat, "and I do not cheat, because I do. Not. _Need_. To."

After a second, Miss Raydor said, "Fine." She folded her hands behind her back and rocked slightly backwards on her heels. "Regardless: bravo." Brenda nodded sharply, and was getting ready to leave when Miss Raydor added, "So you haven't read the play."

"I will," Brenda said at once. "Soon as I can."

"Mm." Ms. Raydor got that peculiar, tiny half-smile on her face. "Lady Macbeth must have appealed to you, then."

"She knows what she wants," Brenda growled. "She doesn't mess around."

"You do know she kills herself, right?" Miss Raydor asked.

Brenda looked at her, stunned.

"She can't keep to her resolution, you see," Miss Raydor continued. "All that big talk about losing her compassion and feeling no remorse for her deeds. In the end, her guilt drives her insane and she can't bear it." She tilted her head to the side. "Just something to consider when you're choosing role models."

Brenda gaped.

"I played her in college," Miss Raydor added. "Not my favorite part. Her head is a terrible place to be."

Brenda's mouth moved, but she couldn't think of anything to say. Miss Raydor just smiled again—looking almost sad, this time—and turned and walked away, her high heels clacking on the floor.

"Brenda?" somebody said. Brenda jumped and turned around to see Mr. Taylor standing there with raised eyebrows. "You all right? You were off in space."

"I'm—I'm fine, sir, I am just fine," Brenda said, wrestling off her backpack. "Here—hold on a second—" She dug out the book of monologues and thrust it at him. "Here you go."

"Oh. Thanks," he said, taking it. "I was going to take them up in class tomorrow."

"Oh, that's all right," Brenda said, keeping a smile on her face, feeling the strain in her cheeks and an odd lump in her throat. "I certainly won't be needin' it anymore."

* * *

TBC. Feedback is awesome!


	8. Chapter 8

After that, oddly enough, things seemed to simmer down a little bit. For the next week, Brenda found that she couldn't bring herself to glare at Miss Raydor in class anymore, and just kept her head down. For her part, Miss Raydor went back to doing her usual stellar job of pretending Brenda wasn't there. She didn't come to any more football practices or games. Brenda didn't arrive at class until just before the bell rang.

It felt sort of like a truce, Brenda supposed. Sort of.

Really, Miss Raydor oughtn't to have ruined Lady Macbeth for her. Brenda was never going to read that play now. It was the only piece of real literature that had ever spoken to her, and now she knew she could never read it, because she didn't want to see Lady Macbeth—with all her fire and fell purpose—just die.

Still. Maybe it was better this way. Just imagine how she would have felt to be reading the play without knowing it was coming. What a cruel surprise that would have been, even if Lady Macbeth was evil. And…

And Miss Raydor had played her on stage. Brenda just couldn't imagine that. Miss Raydor was so cold, so remote, not at all the sort to rage about murdering ministers and such. How had she done it?

Maybe she hadn't been any good at it. Probably that was why she was a teacher and not an actress. She must not have any…stage presence or whatever, Brenda thought as she watched Miss Raydor glide around the room, returning the most recent set of pop quizzes.

But—well, she did keep her shoulders up. She had what Brenda's momma called _good bearing._ Her voice carried all over the room even though she hardly ever raised it, and she might as well have been born in those high heels for all the natural grace she had in them.

She'd probably been okay on stage. She was sort of…easy to watch. If you wanted to.

Miss Raydor paused in front of Brenda's row with the quizzes. For a second, she appeared to forget their unspoken resolution as she glanced into Brenda's eyes. All in a flash, Brenda remembered her mouth moving to the words of a psalm.

Then Miss Raydor gave Brenda her quiz—one hundred percent correct, of course—and silently continued on her way.

Brenda dug her nails into her palms, and took no satisfaction at all in shoving her perfect quiz into her increasingly messy notebook. Oh, that woman! She was—she was just ridiculous, that's what she was, with her green eyes and her men's cologne and everything else.

"I will have your last essay graded and returned by Monday," Miss Raydor said suddenly, looking up as she returned the final quiz to Noah. "Sorry it's taken me a little longer than usual. I guess I should start assigning shorter papers, hmm?"

"Yes!" David blurted behind Brenda, sounding as if he hadn't really meant to say it out loud. At the sound of it, Miss Raydor's mouth widened in a brief, but dazzling smile. She even got a bit of sparkle in her eyes.

Brenda almost growled. She could give a letter-perfect performance of Shakespeare at the last minute, and all she got for her pains was scorn, while David said something stupid in class and made Miss Raydor's eyes sparkle. There was no sense to it. Absolutely no justice at all.

Good thing they had a truce, she reminded herself, and made sure she had out a fresh piece of paper for notes. Today they were talking about how Thomas Becket got himself assassinated, and she didn't really want to miss that. Sometimes history could be sort of exciting, really.

Then, while Miss Raydor started writing on the board, Mike voiced exactly what Brenda had been thinking: "There sure are a lot of murders in history, ma'am."

Everyone laughed. Even Miss Raydor chuckled. Then she said dryly, "Just wait until we get to the princes in the Tower."

"A princess was murdered in a tower?" Sam asked.

"Princes, Mr. Peckendorf. Plural. And yes, they were murdered, but no one knows by whom. Not for sure."

"Let's talk about them instead," Trish suggested.

Miss Raydor wagged her finger. "Not yet. We have other murders to get through first. Let's start with Saint Thomas."

Huh. Princes murdered in a tower. That would probably be pretty good. Brenda had to admit that Miss Raydor could—occasionally—be riveting. Just sometimes. A little bit. If you liked that sort of thing.

The weekend came and went uneventfully, unless she counted giving Fritz another Saturday night handjob and then talking his hand out from beneath her skirt as an "event," which she didn't suppose she could, considering how often it happened. He was starting to get upset by her reluctance, she knew. But she couldn't help it. Every time his hand slid up the inside of her thigh, she felt a hot shiver of interest, but it was inevitably followed by the urge to squirm away as she muttered, "Not tonight. Not yet." And wasn't that okay? Shouldn't she be comfortable in this of all things?

He couldn't quite meet her eyes as he led her up the driveway to her front door, where the porch was lit up. The lights were on in the kitchen, where Brenda knew that one of her parents was waiting up for her.

Then he paused and blurted, "I just don't want this to be something you're only doing to make me happy."

Brenda gulped. "I'm not. It's not. Don't you think you make me happy, Fritzy?"

"Fri—" His eyebrows climbed up his forehead. "'Fritzy'?"

Brenda blushed. "I…oh. That just slipped out. Dunno where it came from. Sorry."

But for some reason, he was smiling. "That's okay. It was cute." He slid his hand up her arm. "You're cute."

Oh. Was she really getting off that easy? Brenda tilted her head and smiled at him. "I am?"

He rolled his eyes. "Yes, and you know it."

"If you're sayin' it, it must be true," she said, and stood up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "Fritzy."

"Just not in front of the guys," he pleaded.

"Oh, I'd never," she said, stepping back and grinning widely at him.

"You wouldn't? Oh, no. Brenda—come on—"

But Brenda had already danced, laughing, into the house. Well. That had ended better than it might have. A lucky escape. Maybe next time she'd be able to let him touch her, she'd feel the urge. He was so nice, so sweet, so decent. He almost never wound her up or made her mad. She knew she was very lucky. Maybe she should have said yes to him all the way back in sophomore year.

Well, whatever. It didn't make any difference. She was dating him now, wasn't she? None of this was worth wracking her brains over. She needed all of them for staying ahead of the game at school.

Like with her history paper. Brenda winced at her reflection as she brushed her teeth. She hadn't really given the second essay her all, in spite of her promises to her parents. She'd tried to do what Miss Raydor said—keep her main idea really focused and all that—but she hadn't felt the same passion and interest in the topic, and surely that had to show. Reagan and Alexander the Great had been interesting. She couldn't say the same for Justinian, even though there had been a plague and everything. Or maybe it was just that she was so afraid of making a mistake that she couldn't let herself enjoy writing about him.

While she was changing into her nightgown, somebody knocked on the bedroom door. "Brenda Leigh?" her mother called.

"Come in, Momma."

Her mother poked her head around the door, and when she saw that Brenda was decently covered, she smiled and sidled in. "I just got off the phone with Trish McCollum's mother. " Brenda kept her smile on her face. For all that she'd never been close to Trish herself, Willie Rae and Althea McCollum were two peas in a pod. "She was just telling me that Trish is so excited about an upcoming field trip."

Brenda blinked. "A what?"

"For her French class," Willie Rae said. "She just heard about it today from Amy Sykes. They're taking people to a French restaurant in midtown next weekend. Saturday night, of course, so as not to conflict with football."

"They? You mean Madame Blaine?"

"Yes. Well, Madame Blaine and Miss Raydor." Brenda's spine stiffened. "Anyway, your daddy and I were talking about how you could use a night out, and a young lady should really get some—"

"Momma, wait," Brenda gasped.

"Get some culture," Willie Rae finished loudly, holding up her hands. "You spend all your time in your books or on the football field, and…"

"No, no, no. I'm in German," Brenda said, shaking her head rapidly. "Not French. I'm not in that class. I'm in German. So I can't go."

Willie Rae put her hands on her hips and gave her a stern look. "Anybody can go, Brenda Leigh. Any of the seniors."

"It'll cost," Brenda said desperately. "A fancy French place? Really, Momma, and college is coming up and all—"

Willie Rae held up a hand again. "Don't fret about that, Brenda Leigh. Althea told me Madame Blaine and Miss Raydor have worked out a—" She frowned. "I don't have any idea how to pronounce it in the language. But it's a fixed price or something like that. And it's really not too bad. I expect the restaurant is giving a discount to the school." Brenda opened her mouth. "You let me and Daddy worry about that, honey."

"But I don't want to go!"

Willie Rae blinked. "Why not? You'll know everybody who's going. And you've never been to a place like that. It'll be fun."

"No, it won't—eating in a fancy restaurant and worrying about what fork to use? And don't they eat frogs? That's not fun, Momma, really, I don't—"

Her mother wagged a finger. "You ought to learn what fork to use, Brenda Leigh. And nobody says you have to eat frogs, but a young lady should experience a little bit of the world when the chance comes her way." She tilted her head to the side. "I'm surprised at you. Althea told me that Trish is over the moon."

"I bet," Brenda muttered.

"Honey?"

"Momma, I have so much work to do, and…"

"Brenda Leigh, it's only one evening."

"But I—"

Willie Rae sighed, turned her head, and called, "Clay, Brenda is saying she doesn't want to go to the French restaurant."

"So what?" Clay called back from the living room.

Willie Rae gave Brenda a sympathetic smile. "It'll be good for you, dear."

"Yes, ma'am," Brenda mumbled to her feet.

"All right, then. Nighty-night." Willie Rae pecked her on the cheek. "Don't let the bedbugs bite. Oh, did you have a good time with Fritz?"

"With who? I mean, oh, yes." Brenda managed to smile at her mother. "'Course I did."

The door closed behind her mother. Brenda flopped down on her mattress with a muffled groan of despair.

So that was the big surprise Miss Raydor had been talking about a few weeks ago. Dinner at a snooty restaurant. Of course all those silly girls were gonna go crazy for it. And Brenda was going to get dragged along whether she liked it or not.

Miss Raydor. On a Saturday night. And she'd witness firsthand how Brenda didn't know anything about forks and foreign food. Perfect. What business did Miss Raydor even have coming along, anyway? Were she and Madame Blaine really that buddy-buddy? How horrible. It wasn't fair. Brenda didn't even know a lick of French!

Culture, her foot.

Her bad mood carried through all the way to Monday morning, when she had to get to history class in time to see Amy, Grace, Trish, and all the rest chattering excitedly to Miss Raydor about the dinner. Miss Raydor had a tolerant smile on her face as she waved at all of them and told them to sit down.

"It'll be a lot of fun, but Madame Blaine is in charge of the field trip, not me," she was saying. "It was her idea. I'm just coming along to help. Now take your seats and we'll begin."

On the corner of her desk sat a stack of graded essays, just as she'd promised. Brenda kept eyeballing them all throughout class. She'd thought she wouldn't be as eager to get this essay back as the last one, but now that it was sitting right there in front of her, she could feel the curiosity and anxiety squirming in her stomach all over again. By the time the bell finally rang, her palms were sweaty.

This time, though, she managed to get out of her seat with a little more decorum after Miss Raydor called Paul Harkness's name. She wasn't going to look desperate, or even very interested. That would please Miss Raydor far too much, Brenda was sure. No indeed, it wasn't a big deal to get this essay back, and Brenda was going to make sure that woman knew it.

But it didn't happen that way. Something else happened instead. Brenda reached the front desk as Miss Raydor pulled her paper from the top of the stack; Miss Raydor's wrist pivoted just as Brenda reached out; and somehow or other, when Brenda took the paper, their fingertips touched.

Then they dropped the paper at the same time. It hit the floor, and Brenda went down on her knees after it without even looking at Miss Raydor, because suddenly her face had gone about three different shades of red and her hand had started shaking and she just wanted to get _out_ of there. Klutz, butterfingers, some athlete she was—somewhere above her head, Miss Raydor was saying, "Oh, excuse me."

Brenda managed, "Mm," before she grabbed the paper and fled the room. She didn't even look to see if Fritz was waiting. She headed straight for the girls' bathroom across the hall and locked herself into a stall, where she fumbled at the pages of her essay and wondered why the skin on her hand felt like it was burning. Stupid, clumsy, humiliating. And she just knew this essay wasn't as good as the last one, and…

She'd made an A.

Brenda stared at the last page of her paper in shock. She forgot about her hand. There it was, in red ink. _Miss Johnson, excellent work with clear signs of improvement. A._

She exhaled so loudly that her chest hurt a little. The paper crinkled and she realized she was gripping it nearly hard enough to tear.

Brenda sat down on the toilet seat because her knees were trembling. She began to flip back through the pages, her hands shaking so badly that she nearly dropped the essay again.

There weren't a lot of comments this time, though. In fact, there were hardly any. Next to her second paragraph, Miss Raydor's red pen had written, _Focused thesis, _and in a couple of other places she'd written things like _Good_. Nothing else. No questions.

Brenda became aware of a dull, heavy sensation in her chest. She realized that she was sort of…disappointed.

Well, that just didn't make any sense. She was only rattled. After all, she'd made an A, and that was the important thing. What did it matter if Miss Raydor hadn't felt compelled to write a novel this time? She'd probably been running a little behind. Busy. Maybe her Yankee boyfriend had come calling from out of town.

Or maybe she just hadn't wanted Brenda to come knocking down her classroom door first thing in the morning. This might just be her way of shutting Brenda up because she didn't want to talk to her or sit next to her again. She hadn't left any comments they could discuss. Nothing that would lend itself to any conversation. Not that Brenda had been wanting that or anything, she'd just been—sort of expecting—that maybe in the pages of her paper, Miss Raydor would have something to say to her, talk to her as if she thought Brenda had a brain.

Yeah, right. Oh, that woman! Suddenly, without thinking about it, Brenda began to crush the essay in her hands, wadding it up into a little ball. Into garbage. That's all it was. And she was halfway to just pitching it in the trash before she remembered that her parents would want to see it.

Shoot. Well, she'd just tell them that she'd crumpled it up by mistake or something.

Then the bathroom door swung open, and Brenda heard the sounds of conversation in the hall outside. How long had it been since the bell rang? How long did she have before she was late to Trig? Fritz had probably already gone on ahead. She burst out of the bathroom stall, clutching her wadded-up essay in one hand and ignoring the girls who looked after her in surprise.

"Where were you?" Fritz asked as she crashed into her seat, right in time for the bell to ring again.

"Bathroom."

"What's that in your hand?"

"My essay," Brenda said, unzipping her backpack and stuffing the crushed essay inside. She pulled out a pencil.

"Holy crap," Fritz said. "Did you fail or something?"

"No. I made an A."

"Oh. But…isn't that good?"

"Guess so." Brenda threw her Trig textbook onto her desk with such force that Mr. Ferguson frowned at her.

"Brenda," Fritz muttered, "are you feeling okay?"

"Huh? Oh—sure, I'm—"

"All right, people," Mr. Ferguson said, clearing his throat and looking at Fritz and Brenda. Brenda immediately straightened her back and smiled at him. His face softened. Easy as pie. Why couldn't it be that easy with all the teachers? With—?

If she ever smiled at Miss Raydor, not that she could, would that woman even notice?

She'd missed the pre-Trig get-together when all the honors history kids compared grades, but they were happy to start talking again after the bell rang, while they were all packing up to head to English. This time, the only other A had been David's, who couldn't believe it. Mike Tao looked even more upset than last time.

"You and me, huh?" David asked, as Brenda looked over his paper while they walked. "Cool. I mean, I worked hard on it, but I can't believe it was that much better than last time." He chuckled. "Maybe it is because I typed it."

"Yeah, maybe," Brenda said, feeling strangely close to tears as she saw that David's essay, while not exactly bursting with comments, had more than hers did. Questions and interested observations, the sort of thing Miss Raydor had written on Brenda's first paper. At the end, Brenda read: _Mr. Gabriel, you are to be commended for your increased efforts. Your focus on Empress Theodora's influence during the Nika riots is especially refreshing. She was quite a woman, wasn't she? Grade: A._

"She really is a libbie," Brenda growled, her throat a bit too thick.

David shrugged. "Thought she'd go for the topic. Looks like it worked. Where's your paper?"

"Yeah, Brenda, show David your paper," Fritz said.

"Um," Brenda said. "Oh look, we're almost here. After class, David, okay?" He was bound to forget by lunch, especially since today was pizza day.

Thankfully, he did, and Fritz had the good grace not to push the subject, although Brenda could tell he was still bothered. What for? This business between Brenda and Miss Raydor had nothing to do with him. He wasn't even in that class.

That night, as she tried to go to sleep, Brenda caught herself stroking her right hand with the fingertips of her left. Her cheeks flamed when she realized it. How silly. And how strange that Miss Raydor's own fingers had been warm. Shouldn't they have been as cold as her blood?

Truce, she reminded herself. Truce.

* * *

TBC. Feedback is much appreciated!


	9. Chapter 9

The rest of the week went by faster than Brenda would have liked. She passed the Trig test with flying colors, and her five-minute presentation in German class went off without a hitch. None of this was a surprise. Football season was ending soon, too. October was nearly over, the weekend after next was the final game. How did time fly by so quickly? How was her senior year getting away from her like this?

Brenda had especial reason to reflect on this on Saturday afternoon, when she had to get ready to go to dinner at Pain et Vin. She'd been dreading this all week, and now it was here and there was no getting out of it.

Yesterday, before the game, Amy and Grace hadn't been able to stop talking about what they were going to wear. Very few people had signed up to go, making Brenda wonder how expensive it had really been. All the junior girls, and the seniors who weren't going, had been terribly jealous. Then they'd all asked Brenda what she was wearing, and she hadn't had a clue.

In the end, it hadn't been too hard to figure out. She'd just put on her best Sunday dress, her cutest shoes, and the little diamond stud earrings that she'd gotten on her sixteenth birthday. Maybe the earrings were a little too nice—really, it wasn't as if this occasion was special or anything—but they did look awfully pretty.

Now dressed, she stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. Hair up or down? She'd only ever worn it up once, at junior prom last year, and her mother had shellacked it with a ton of hairspray to keep it in place. Brenda had feared she'd never get the smell out of her nose. Down it was, then. But maybe…pulled back with a jeweled barrette, like this. Yeah. That looked a little older. A little more mature. Definitely better than her usual ponytail.

She rummaged in her makeup bag and pulled out the tube of her favorite frosted pink lipstick. But now that she thought about it, that seemed awfully girly, too. Of course Brenda had no objections to being cute and feminine; it meant that people were much more likely to do what she asked them to. But tonight she didn't want to look _young, _exactly, not at a fancy restaurant in the city. She might not be a Manhattan socialite or anything, but surely she could be a little more…sophisticated than usual.

Brenda put away the pink lipstick and pulled out another tube that she hardly ever used. Dark red. That was more like it. She applied it, then blotted her lips on a tissue. Then the usual mascara. Now her hair and her face were done.

Brenda stepped back from the mirror and looked at herself all at once. Yeah, that was…she looked okay, she supposed. She wouldn't disgrace herself. She was surprised at how nervous and jumpy she felt, how desperate to look her absolute best, no, better than her best. Fritz wasn't going to be there. In fact, no boys had signed up to go. Who did she have to impress?

Nobody, that's who. Absolutely nobody.

Well, maybe her parents, she thought as she descended the steps into the living room, where her father waited for her. Suddenly it felt like junior prom all over again, except that Wallace wasn't there for her to break up with at the end of the night.

"You look real nice," Clay said, nodding his head approvingly.

"Oh, Daddy." Brenda blushed as she reached the bottom step. "It's just my Sunday dress, nothing special."

"You're special enough, pumpkin," he said, kissing her cheek. "Don't you go running off to Paris with some French boy. Willie Rae, I'm about ready to take Brenda Leigh to the school, where are you?"

"Right here, right here," Willie Rae said, hurrying down the hall. Brenda saw, with resignation, that her mother was carrying the Polaroid camera. "Let me get a picture."

"Momma," Brenda protested.

"Oh, hush. My goodness!" Willie Rae said as she raised the camera. "Don't you look like an elegant young lady?"

"I hope so," Brenda said, straightening her shoulders. "That's just what I'm goin' for."

* * *

Pain et Vin wasn't exactly what Brenda had expected. She'd been imagining some giant ballroom with crystal chandeliers, waiters in tailcoats with white gloves, and everyone (except herself) in evening gowns and tuxes. Maybe a string quartet.

The reality was humbler. The restaurant was sandwiched between a small boutique and a shoe repair place, both of which were closed at this time of night. It was small and dimly lit, with Tiffany lamps over the tables, and pretty little flower arrangements everywhere. There was music, but it was mostly jaunty tunes featuring piano and the accordion, and so soft that it wasn't intrusive. The other patrons of the restaurant seemed to be couples going out for a romantic Saturday night on the town. It wasn't crowded.

To her surprise, Brenda found the whole place almost relaxing, especially after the ride here. Her daddy had dropped her off at the school, where she'd had to pile into a van with the other five senior girls who were going, plus Madame Blaine and Miss Raydor, who sat together in the front. Brenda'd shared a seat with Grace, who'd put up her hair and was wearing an absolutely ridiculous amount of makeup, not to mention stifling perfume. By the time they got to Pain et Vin, Brenda was pretty close to developing a headache from all the noise, and having to walk two blocks from the parking lot didn't help much, not in her pointy little shoes.

But now they were all sitting around a big round table with menus in front of them, and Brenda decided that maybe she should just make the best of it now that she was here. She could slip her shoes off under the table and nobody would know. Grace was several seats away and Brenda couldn't smell her anymore. In fact, the restaurant itself smelled pretty good. Her mother hadn't let her make a sandwich before she left, so she was hungry.

"Okay," Madame Blaine said, holding up the menu. "Remember, this is the _prix fixe _menu, and anything you order is covered by what your parents have already paid. Each course has choices, except the soup course. We order dessert after the other courses have been served. This isn't really like it is in France, where usually there's only one menu and you'll see it written on a board outside the restaurant, and…"

Brenda was already tuning her out, because it didn't matter how a restaurant in France did it. Instead, she turned her attention to the menu, which was entirely in French, no doubt as a torture exercise. It read:

**_Pain et Vin_**

_Il y a une femme dans toutes les affaires; Cherchez la femme! -Alexandre Dumas_

**_Menu Prix Fixe _**

_Hors D'Ouevres _

_Assiette de Fruits et Fondue de Brie_

_Moules à La Merinière _

_Les Escargots au Beurre _

_Soupe du Jour_

_Vichyssoise _

_Les Plats Principeaux_

_Coq au Vin_

_Bœuf Bourguignon_

_Foie Gras_

_Les Desserts_

_Crêpe Suzette_

_Crème Brûlée _

Brenda recognized a couple of the dishes. She'd definitely heard of "foie gras," although she wasn't clear on what it actually was. And she was pretty sure that "escargots" meant snails. Yuck. No way. But what did all the rest mean?

"Madame Blaine," Miss Raydor said, "maybe you could just refresh us all on what these dishes are?"

Brenda slowly raised her head, just knowing that Miss Raydor was going to be looking at her—but she wasn't. She was looking politely at Madame Blaine, not at Brenda, not even a little bit.

Brenda used the opportunity to scrutinize her more closely. She hadn't gotten a good look in the van or walking down the street. Miss Raydor's hair was still pulled back, but not in the tight bun. Instead, it was caught softly up in a chignon, piled higher on her head. She didn't have her glasses on tonight. And instead of a suit, she had on a smart little black dress. A string of pearls around her throat matched her usual earrings. She didn't look pretty, exactly, but she did look very elegant. As if she belonged in a fancy French restaurant. Meanwhile, Brenda felt awkward and out of place in the dress she'd worn to the church youth social two weeks ago.

Then Brenda realized that Madame Blaine was explaining all the food, and had already finished with the appetizers and the soup. Shoot! She had to pay attention to this. "…chicken in wine, lardons and mushrooms," Madame Blaine was saying, pointing at her menu. "Bœuf Bourguignon is just beef braised in red wine—"

"Does everything come in wine?" Amy giggled.

"The alcohol burns off during cooking," Miss Raydor said firmly.

"—braised in red wine," Madame Blaine continued, glaring at Amy, "with garlic, onions, and mushrooms. Foie gras is goose liver."

"Liver? Eww," Trish said.

"It's an acquired taste," Madame Blaine chuckled. "And then there are the desserts. Crêpes are like little thin, sweet pancakes, and crème brûlée is a bowl of custard with caramelized sugar on top." She smiled and set the menu down. "C'est tout! Are there any questions?"

Yes, Brenda wanted to say, where's the chocolate? Instead, she asked, "We don't have to order in French, do we?"

Then her face turned red when the other girls laughed, and Amy and Trish elbowed each other.

"No, dear," Madame Blaine said kindly. "Though I will, of course, and so will my students."

"Will you, Miss Raydor?" Grace asked.

"I'll stick with English," Miss Raydor said with a dry smile. "Seems safest. What's everyone having?"

"Chicken," Grace said at once.

"Beef," Amy said.

"I'm gonna get the mussels for the appetizer," Trish said.

"Me too," said Steffi. "I like seafood."

"Yeah," Melinda agreed. "Not mushrooms, though. I'll just pick them off the chicken."

Just then, the waiter arrived. He was a handsome young man wearing a white jacket and black pants. "Good evening, ladies," he said, his voice thickly accented with French. All the other girls at the table sighed in near-perfect unison. Brenda wrinkled her nose, and glanced at Miss Raydor just in time to catch a smile flash across her face.

"Are you ready to order?" the waiter asked.

"I think so," Madame Blaine said, glancing around the table. Everyone nodded eagerly, except Brenda, who looked down at the menu again in confusion. Well…she couldn't go wrong with the chicken or the beef, she supposed. And she didn't like shellfish, so that thing at the top of the list would have to do for an appetizer. It said 'fruit' something, so it couldn't be that bad.

Madame Blaine cleared her throat, and began speaking in French. Brenda listened. She couldn't really make it out, but she thought Madame Blaine was ordering the mussels and the chicken. Her accent didn't sound really French, though, nothing like the waiter's. It just sounded like a Georgia accent, only with foreign words. And Brenda fancied—though she couldn't be sure, and nobody else seemed to notice—that the waiter thought it was funny.

But at least Madame Blaine spoke French. That was plainly more than could be said for the other girls, who ordered haltingly. Brenda almost felt embarrassed for them. Herr Schmidt had often told her that her German accent was excellent. It wasn't hard to learn another language. Weren't they even trying?

There came a welcome pause when Miss Raydor ordered her fruit and beef in English, but then the agony resumed when Melinda began fumbling her way through mussels and chicken.

"Ah," the waiter said when Steffi finished, "you ladies, you know what you want!"

"Anything but the escargot and foie gras," Grace laughed. "Ew!"

"I can't believe people eat that stuff," Trish agreed. "And frog legs! Do you really serve frog legs?"

"Yes, but not on your menu," the waiter said. His smile became very patronizing. "We must please the American girls, no?"

"Must you?" Miss Raydor asked, tilting her head to the side.

"But of course!" The waiter took Steffi's menu, turned to Brenda, and said, "And for you, ma petite?"

Brenda looked at him. Then she held out her menu and said flatly, "Snails and goose liver."

The waiter blinked. "Mademoiselle is certain?" he asked as he took the menu.

"Wee," Brenda said, folding her arms.

He bowed his head briefly. "As you wish." He turned to Madame Blaine. "The hors d'oeuvres will be out shortly."

"Merci," Madame Blaine said, and turned to Brenda with raised eyebrows as he departed. "Well, you got adventurous, Brenda."

"You're not really going to eat snails, are you?" Amy asked, managing to sound both disgusted and thrilled.

"Sure. You wanna know why?" Brenda asked. "Because I'm not scared of food."

"Well—I'm not either," Amy said, as if suddenly desperate to prove she could be as worldly as anybody else. "I just like beef."

"Then everybody's happy," Brenda said, unfolding the soft linen napkin and placing it in her lap.

When the appetizers arrived ten minutes later, though, she had to admit that she was less happy than everyone else. The mussels smelled delicious, and the fruit thing looked like fun—you took little metal skewers and dipped bits of apple and pear in a pot of melted cheese.

Brenda's snails were still in the shells. There were four of them. And they were a lot bigger than she'd thought they would be. Jumbo snails. They smelled okay, she guessed—lots of butter and garlic—but how was she supposed to eat them?

She took one of the shells between her thumb and index finger and gingerly tilted it so she could look inside. Then she wished she hadn't, because there was something green and slimy in there, and she had to *_eat it.*_

Everyone at the table was watching her, except for Miss Raydor, who was dipping an apple slice into her melted cheese as if it was the most fascinating thing she'd ever seen. And they were all waiting for Brenda to make a face, or chicken out, or…

Brenda's fingers tightened on the tiny, two-pronged fork she'd been given, and she wedged it inside a shell, tugging until the green, slimy thing began to ooze out. "Gross," Trish breathed.

"It certainly smells good," Madame Blaine said brightly, though Brenda couldn't help but notice that she didn't ask to try a bite.

"Sure does," Brenda managed. There was a little dish of melted butter on her plate. She dunked the snail in the butter, and made sure to keep a smile on her face as she put it in her mouth and chewed.

And chewed. And chewed. Oh mercy, it was slippery, and sure, it tasted like garlic and butter, but beneath that—the flavor was—

When she'd chewed it into pulp, she swallowed it down, just managing not to gag. Then she said, with a smile, "Not bad!"

"Seriously?" Grace asked, wide-eyed.

"I've tried escargot before," Miss Raydor said, sipping her water and finally glancing at Brenda. "I had to pretend I was eating small pieces of pork, to start with."

"Oh, really?" asked Brenda, who twenty minutes ago would rather have died than accept advice from Miss Raydor, but who was now eating snails. Emergency measures were called for. "Well...that's…"

"Should've gotten the mussels," Trish said. "They're yummy."

"I don't like snailfish. I mean, shellfish."

"The fruit is good, too. I've never put fruit in cheese before," Amy said.

"Fondue is a real treat. I used to go to a lot of fondue parties," Madame Blaine said. "Remember those, Miss Raydor?"

"Oh," Miss Raydor said. "Fondue parties. Indeed I do."

"And weren't they fun?"

"They were quite something."

"What are those for, Brenda?" Grace asked, pointing at a small pair of forceps on Brenda's plate, next to the butter dish. As if Brenda was supposed to know.

"You use those to grip the snail shell," Miss Raydor said. "It makes it easier to extract the meat."

"I'm doin' okay," Brenda muttered as she got started on the second snail. "They're…really good. I like them."

She jammed Snail Number Two into her mouth and started chewing. Pork. Think of pork. Not a bad idea, really. It did seem to help. Maybe the meat wasn't quite as rubbery as she'd thought. Or perhaps the first snail had been a bad one.

"Maybe next time you can try the frog legs," Miss Raydor said.

Brenda raised her eyes from her plate. Miss Raydor was smiling at her, and there didn't seem to be any malice in it. Brenda's stomach dropped all the way down to her toes and she nearly choked on her snail.

But then, before she could do or say anything in reply, the waiter appeared by Miss Raydor's elbow and cleared his throat. He was holding a glass of white wine in his hand. "For you, madame," he said.

Miss Raydor blinked at the glass, and then frowned at him. "I'm sorry, I didn't order this."

"I know, madame. A gentleman sends it with his compliments." The waiter nodded to his left, and everyone at the table turned to see a middle-aged man in a suit sitting alone at a table by the window. He nodded at Miss Raydor and raised his own wineglass with a small smile. All the girls started giggling and whispering, and Brenda looked closely at Miss Raydor. Was she blushing? In the candlelight, it was nearly impossible to tell.

But whether she blushed or not, her voice was perfectly calm when she said, "Please thank him for me, but this is a school outing. It wouldn't be appropriate for me to drink."

"Oh, don't worry about that," Madame Blaine said at once. "You're not driving anywhere, and it's only one glass. We don't mind, do we, girls?"

"No, no," everyone chorused, and so Miss Raydor accepted the wine, taking a tiny sip and gifting the solitary gentleman with a polite smile.

"Now that," Madame Blaine added, "is very French."

"Mm," Miss Raydor said, setting the glass back down on the table. "Very kind of him." But she didn't exactly look thrilled. Brenda couldn't blame her. What kind of man sent wine to a lady he didn't even know? In front of a bunch of high school kids? Not a gentleman, surely. She scowled at him, but he wasn't looking their way anymore.

"Are you going to tell your boyfriend?" Grace asked with a knowing smile.

"Now, Grace," Madame Blaine reproved, but Brenda thought she looked kind of interested herself. As for Brenda, the two snails suddenly felt like bricks in her stomach.

"How is he?" Amy said. "Is he gonna come back to visit?"

"We haven't talked about it," Miss Raydor said. She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin.

"You should break up with him. He lives too far away," Steffi said.

"Hey," Trish snapped, before Miss Raydor could reply. "Nothing's wrong with long-distance relationships. What are you talking about?"

"Oh," Steffi said quickly, while Amy rolled her eyes. "No, I didn't mean you and Chad, I just meant…"

"Chad and I are still totally into each other—"

Brenda stopped listening to them as she watched Miss Raydor's face. She seemed to be concentrating really hard on finishing up her fruit. But she hadn't looked happy about getting the wine, and she definitely didn't look happy at all the talk about her boyfriend. She'd been standoffish with him at the game, too. And apparently they weren't talking about whether or not he was coming for another visit.

Maybe they were going to break up. Maybe they already had. Brenda could only imagine that it was hard to date somebody who lived so far off.

Not that it was any of her business. She ought to focus on eating these wretched things. But as she started on the third snail, Brenda thought that maybe escargot didn't taste so horrible after all. Her stomach felt a little lighter now. A little warmer.

In fact, she felt downright expansive. At least enough to ask, when she'd finished her third snail, "What did those words at the top of the menu mean?"

"The what?" Madame Blaine asked.

"You know. The words before the menu started. Something by Alexandre Dumas, didn't he write _The Three Musketeers?"_

"Oh, that!" Madame Blaine said. "Yes, I remember." She smiled and placed a plump hand over her heart. "_Il y a une femme dans toutes les affaires; cherchez la femme!" _She smiled at Brenda. "Was that it?"

Brenda stared at her. "I guess so?"

"That was it," Miss Raydor confirmed, taking another little sip of her wine. It barely seemed to touch her lips.

"It's from a play," Madame Blaine explained, looking around the table and obviously using this as a teaching moment. "A murder mystery. I think it's something the lead detective says—whenever he gets a report, he knows that a woman must be involved somehow. Cherchez la femme: look for the woman!"

"What's that have to do with the restaurant?" Brenda asked.

"Who knows?" Madame Blaine laughed. "But it's so very French!"

"Have you been to France?" Melinda asked.

"Er…" Madame Blaine cleared her throat. "No. I've only been to Quebec. But someday."

It seemed to Brenda that anyone who had an opinion on what was 'so very French' ought to have been to France, but she knew better than to say so. In the meantime, she choked down her fourth snail, and felt an undeniable thrill of victory.

"Well," she said. "That was just delicious."

Her triumph vanished just a few moments later, though, when the soup course arrived. Potato soup. *_Cold* _potato soup.

It didn't really improve from there. She didn't suppose the foie gras was bad, but it came out in three little bland-looking slices garnished with parsley and mustard sauce, while the dishes of chicken and beef looked and smelled magnificent. At least she didn't need any special utensils to eat this time. A plain old knife and fork sufficed just fine, and it was kind of funny to watch some of the other girls try to slice up their chickens without splattering sauce on their clothes.

"Want a bite?" Melinda asked Brenda, offering her a tidbit of beef. Brenda accepted it gratefully, and had to admit it was delicious: juicy, tender, flavorful. Was that what red wine tasted like? Her parents never let her have any. She had a feeling she might like red wine.

"Want some goose liver?" she asked Melinda.

"Um…no thanks."

"Foie gras, Brenda," reminded Madame Blaine. "Just give the French a try."

"Fwah grah, sure. Anybody want some?"

"I'll have a little, if you don't mind," Miss Raydor said, when nobody else jumped at the chance. Brenda wondered if this was just more pity on her part, like with the psalm. She told herself that this was different, it wasn't cheating. There just wasn't any sense in letting food go to waste. She sliced off a pretty big chunk of foie gras, as if she was just being generous, and slid it onto Miss Raydor's plate.

"Thank you," Miss Raydor said, and took a small, neat bite. Brenda watched her chew it. She actually seemed to like it. "That's nicely done."

"You can have some more," Brenda said desperately.

Miss Raydor's mouth turned up at the corners. "No, thank you, Miss Johnson. It's very rich."

"How's the wine?" asked Madame Blaine.

"It's good. I think it's Moselle." Miss Raydor glanced over to where the anonymous gentleman had been sitting, but his table was empty now. She pushed the wineglass away from herself, and Brenda knew she wasn't going to drink any more. She wondered what Moselle tasted like.

Maybe it would help to wash down the foie gras. Miss Raydor was right. It was rich. Fatty. By the time Brenda managed to get it all down, she felt a little sick, and wondered how she could possibly eat dessert. Which just wasn't fair at all.

The waiter came back to take their dessert orders, and Brenda decided to go with the custard, since she couldn't imagine eating pancakes after all that other food. When it arrived, she was relieved to see that it came in a tiny white dish with a little spoon. Under any other circumstances she would have been outraged at such a small portion, but not tonight.

The top of the custard didn't look very appetizing, though. It was brown and hard. She had to tap at it with her spoon a few times before she broke through, and when she took a hesitant bite, she wrinkled her nose. It tasted burned. A fancy place like this, and they burned the dessert! Should she say something? Could she send it back?

Miss Raydor had ordered the custard too. Brenda snuck a glance at her and saw that she was eating it daintily, and appeared to enjoy it, burned topping and all. For heaven's sake, was it actually supposed to taste like this? Why did French people ever eat?

Brenda looked disconsolately at everyone else eating their pancakes, which were topped with sugar and some kind of fruity sauce. Then she tried the soft, cold yellow custard beneath the burned topping. That was better, she guessed—it was sweet, at least—but it didn't taste of anything much. It reminded her of the vanilla Jell-O pudding she'd eaten after getting her tonsils out.

"What do you think of the crème brûlée?" Madame Blaine asked. Brenda looked up from her custard, but Madame Blaine was asking Miss Raydor, not her.

"It's delicious," Miss Raydor said, appearing perfectly sincere. "Very creamy and light."

"Do you like it, Brenda?" Steffi asked. "Can I try a bite?"

"You can finish it," Brenda said. "I'm stuffed." She pushed the dish into the middle of the table and waved her hand, indicating that it was open season.

When everyone had put down their spoons, and looked sleepy from all the food, Madame Blaine asked, "Well, girls, what was your favorite dish?"

Everybody turned, as one, to Brenda. She fixed a smile on her face and said, "Oh, I really couldn't pick one thing. What about y'all?"

"Loved the crêpes," Amy enthused. "That sauce was so good, the…what was it called?"

"Grand Marnier," Miss Raydor said. "It's a liqueur."

"Alcohol really is in everything," Trish said, but she looked titillated.

"I want to move to France," Grace announced. "I want to be sophisticated and eat like this all the time."

"I want men to send me wine," Melinda cooed, batting her eyelashes at Miss Raydor, who merely gave her an amused look in return.

Everyone giggled but Brenda, who said, "Where's the bathroom?"

Madame Blaine cleared her throat and said, pointedly, "The *_ladies' room_* is towards the back of the restaurant."

Brenda kept her smile fixed on her face, slipped her feet back into her shoes, and headed back to the bathroom. She didn't really have to go, but her face felt a little hot, and she wanted to splash some water on it. Plus, it would be good to get away from all the babble for just a few seconds.

She rolled her eyes when she saw two bathroom doors, and one read "Femmes" and the other "Gentilhommes." No pictures or translations. How snooty.

"Cherchez la femme," she muttered, went through that door, and to her relief, saw another woman at the sink washing her hands. Not that she'd really doubted—"female" and "feminine" and whatnot—but still.

She splashed her cheeks and took a few moments to revel in the quiet. Ugh, they hadn't shut up the whole time. The only one who'd known how to keep her mouth closed for longer than a minute at a stretch was Miss Raydor, who…

Brenda splashed water on her face again, patted it dry with one of the rolled-up towels, took a deep breath, and left the bathroom. To her relief, she saw that everyone was standing up, preparing to go. "I'll settle the bill," Miss Raydor was saying as Brenda approached the table.

Finally. The evening had felt like it would never end. Brenda grabbed her coat and followed the rest of the group outside, resigned to walking the two blocks in her pointy shoes. It wasn't until they was halfway to the van that she realized she'd left her purse behind. And it wasn't even her purse—it was her mother's, borrowed special for the evening. "Oh, shoot, I forgot my bag," she said. "I have to go back and get it."

"Okay," Madame Blaine began, but Brenda was already hurrying back down the sidewalk, telling herself that it was very unlikely that Willie Rae's purse would have been snatched in a nice restaurant in the past four minutes. But Brenda's daddy had put five dollars in there for her "just in case," and the leather was embossed to look like crocodile skin, so you could never be sure.

She made it back into the restaurant, her eyes searching until she saw a familiar figure. Miss Raydor was standing next to the table, chatting with the waiter. She had her handbag over her shoulder, and in her left hand she held Brenda's mother's purse by the strap.

As Brenda approached, mortified, she realized that Miss Raydor and the waiter were actually conversing in French. And that Miss Raydor's accent was far prettier than Madame Blaine's. It sounded like real French, the kind Brenda had heard on TV a few times. She also spoke more quickly, with less deliberation, just as easily as if she were speaking English. Brenda had no idea what they were saying, but she caught the word 'Paree.' Paris. Maybe Miss Raydor had lived in Paris or something?

The waiter said something that made Miss Raydor smile. Her teeth flashed white in the dim light of the restaurant. Her face got softer.

Then the waiter caught Brenda's eye and tilted his head towards her. Miss Raydor turned to see Brenda standing there thunderstruck, and her radiant smile faded back into the usual polite one. Then she held out her hand, offering Brenda her purse. "I suppose this is yours."

"Thanks," Brenda whispered, taking it with a shaking hand. "Uh…everybody's at the van."

"Yes, yes," Miss Raydor sighed, and turned back to the waiter. "_Merci, monsieur." _At least Brenda understood what that meant.

The waiter replied with more French, and gestured at the black coat Miss Raydor had draped over her arm. Miss Raydor smiled again, and permitted him to help her put it on. He gave her a look that was downright dopey in return. Then he said something else in French, and concluded with _"Au revoir, mademoiselle."_ He nodded his head again at Brenda, and turned and headed back to the kitchen.

"His father owns the restaurant," Miss Raydor said as she led Brenda to the front door.

Brenda almost tripped. Miss Raydor was talking to her, making conversation, just as if Brenda was one of her girls? "Oh," she said. "Why didn't you talk in French during supper?"

Miss Raydor shrugged as the host held the front door open for them. "I just didn't."

"Well, I know why," Brenda said in exasperation, finally regaining her equilibrium. They emerged into the night air. "Because you speak it better than Madame Blaine does. So how come you don't teach French?"

"I'm not licensed to. And Madame Blaine's French is perfectly good." But Miss Raydor didn't look at Brenda when she said that. Instead, she glanced up and down the street, furrowing her brow. "Hmm."

"We go right," Brenda said, and then, incredulously, "are you lost?"

"No," Miss Raydor said too quickly, turning to the right. "Just mixed up. I was a little distracted during the walk here."

Because of all the girls chattering her ears off, no doubt. Well, that's just what you got when you tried to be Miss Popular. But the chattering girls weren't here right now. It was just Brenda.

Brenda blinked. It was just the two of them. It should have been awful, but she straightened her shoulders, suddenly feeling almost…smug. They all swarmed around Miss Raydor's desk before class, but Brenda was the one who got to walk with her down a city street, all dressed up, just as if they were going somewhere special. Wouldn't those silly, gabby girls just eat their hearts out with ketchup and mustard?

And as they walked, Brenda was suddenly seized by the urge to say something nice to Miss Raydor for once. To make more conversation.

And…and there was no reason not to, was there? Miss Raydor seemed pretty relaxed and easy tonight, like she wouldn't bite Brenda's head off or look at her like she was stupid. She'd actually been sort of nice during dinner. And nobody was watching. Nobody would think that Brenda was just a big brown-nose like all the others.

But just as she opened her mouth to ask _Did you ever live in Paris, _she heard a strange noise, a soft cry in a woman's voice, coming from the alley they were just about to walk past. Miss Raydor heard it too, and stopped, looking alarmed. Brenda's whole body immediately felt charged up. Was somebody in trouble? Should they go call for the police, or maybe stay and try to help? What was going on down that—

"Oh, God," Miss Raydor muttered, and Brenda saw that she'd pinched her lips together. But before Brenda could say anything, Miss Raydor took hold of her arm and began to march her forward. "Just keep walking."

"What?!" Brenda was horrified. "Somebody's in trouble! We can't just—"

But Miss Raydor was already tugging her past the alley, and of course Brenda just had to turn her head, and…it was a man and woman up against a wall. Her arms and legs were tightly wrapped around him, and his pants were pushed down so that Brenda could see his boxers—the woman cried out again as he moved his hips—

Brenda's vision blurred as she looked away. All she could feel in the world was Miss Raydor's hand on her arm, dragging her down the sidewalk until Brenda couldn't hear anything else from the alley.

After a second, Miss Raydor let her go, and sighed. "Well. That was another educational experience, wasn't it?"

"Right, right there in the open," Brenda choked. "Where anyone could see? That's, that's…" She didn't exactly know what it was. She'd never been so scandalized in all her life. She hadn't known that people even did that sort of thing. What would her momma and daddy have said? Brenda heartily wished that they'd stumbled across somebody getting mugged or murdered instead.

They didn't speak again until they reached the van. Brenda could barely see where she was going, even though the street was well-lit. Next to her, Miss Raydor's heels went clack-clack in a rapid tattoo against the sidewalk, but she made no other sounds. Brenda couldn't even hear the rustle of her skirt or a catch in her breath. Her arm tingled and burned where Miss Raydor had touched it, even through her coat.

They made it back to the van, where the driver had the engine idling. Brenda could tell immediately, by the way that everyone was acting completely normal, that nobody else had seen the couple in the alley. Maybe the man and woman had…had started right after they'd all walked by.

Miss Raydor paused before they reached the van, cleared her throat, and Brenda turned to look at her. Miss Raydor regarded her very sternly and said, "I suggest you keep that incident to yourself until you get home and can speak to your parents about it. I'll discuss it with Madame Blaine later."

"I don't want to talk about that to anybody," Brenda snapped. "Including you, so don't worry!" Then she hugged her mother's purse close to her chest and clambered into the van, knowing that everyone would see the thunder on her face and assume that she and Miss Raydor had gotten into it again. Oh, great, and if word got back to her parents…but Brenda just couldn't look at Miss Raydor right now, much less talk to her in any civil way. Not after _that._ Her blood was still roaring in her ears. She felt sick again.

Grace didn't talk to her on the ride home, instead conspiring with Trish and Amy in the seat behind them about going horseback riding that weekend. That was fine with Brenda. She huddled up next to the window and stared out of it, watching the city go by. In spite of her best intentions, she kept stealing glances at Miss Raydor sitting next to Madame Blaine in the front seat, visible through the huge rear-view mirror.

Then, after they were about fifteen minutes into the drive, Brenda saw Miss Raydor lean towards Madame Blaine and whisper something in her ear. Madame Blaine's eyes went wide and she clapped a hand over her mouth. She and Miss Raydor stared at each other.

And then they both laughed. They laughed! Miss Raydor grinned, bit her bottom lip, and then put her hand over her own mouth, but Brenda had seen it. She was laughing? She thought what that man and woman had been doing right out in the open was _funny?_

Brenda's face felt hotter than ever as she turned to look resolutely out the window. Well. Miss Raydor could just laugh her head off. She wouldn't think it was so funny if it had happened to her, Brenda was sure.

She wouldn't think it was funny if somebody pushed her back up against an alley wall, and—what then? Grabbed her hair. Ran their hands all over her. Pushed her skirt up, made her stand with her legs apart, wedged their hips between her thighs, kissed and kissed her—made her cry out—right out there in the open where anybody could see who she belonged to—

Brenda bit down on her thumb before she could whimper, and squeezed her thighs as tightly together as she could so that she wouldn't wriggle in the seat.

No. None of that was funny at all.

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TBC. Feedback keeps me going!


	10. Chapter 10

Willie Rae and Clay were both full of questions about Brenda's "big night out," wanting to know all about the food and the atmosphere and if Brenda had let herself get sufficient culture. "I bet you learned a lot," Willie Rae enthused.

Brenda remembered Miss Raydor telling her—in her way—to discuss the alley incident with her parents. What kind of kooky dream world would that discussion take place in? The only result, so far as Brenda could see, would be that Clay and Willie Rae would probably forbid her from ever going into that part of town again. If they got upset enough, they might even call the school and tell Principal Delk, who would probably put the kibosh on any more field trips, and that would just make everybody mad at Brenda. And it wouldn't solve anything. It wouldn't turn back the clock and make that couple…not do what they'd been doing when Brenda and Miss Raydor had happened across them.

So she just replied, quite truthfully, "I sure did, Momma. A whole lot."

"You really ate snails?" her father asked in disbelief.

"Everybody else was too scared to."

Clay chuckled and shook his head. "You do beat all, Brenda Leigh."

But in bed, Brenda thought maybe she'd run into something she couldn't beat. Not tonight, anyway. She was tired, and all those girls had made her cranky and edgy, and she'd hated the food, and then—in the alley—and Miss Raydor, laughing—

All the feelings she'd tamped down, pushed away while talking to her parents, surged back up. It was a miracle she wasn't sick to her stomach. She couldn't slow her heartbeat, and even though it was nearly November, she had to kick the blanket off her bed because her whole body felt like it had been shoved in an oven. By the time she did manage to fall asleep, it was well past midnight.

It might have been okay if she hadn't dreamed. But she did.

She was standing in the alley near the French restaurant, wearing her Sunday dress, all alone. She was hiding from somebody, but there was nowhere to hide, nothing to duck behind or shield herself with, and the alley itself led to a dead end. The only way out was by going back to the street, and could she risk that? Could she chance it?

Desperately, Brenda looked at the dead end of the alley again, as if maybe she could find a way through it, when she heard footsteps behind her, and she knew that she'd been caught by whomever she was trying to escape.

Shaking with terror, she turned to face the mouth of the alley. Then she cried out in sheer relief. "Oh," she gasped, leaning back against the alley wall. "It's just you!"

"Yes, it's me," Miss Raydor said, striding forward, and stopping a few paces away from Brenda. She was wearing her suit and glasses and high heels.

"I thought you were someone else. I thought you were—"

"Who?" Miss Raydor asked.

Brenda shook her head in confusion. "I don't know. I can't remember."

Miss Raydor smiled politely at her. "It's time to go. The van is waiting."

"What? Oh no," Brenda said. All of a sudden, her apprehension returned, worse than before. "No, no, we can't go back out on the street." She realized that Miss Raydor was still standing much too close to the mouth of the alley. "Come here!"

Miss Raydor didn't move. "Why?"

"Because—he'll be here any second—"

Miss Raydor took a step forward, but then stopped.

Brenda held out her hands imploringly, but found that she couldn't move forwards, couldn't step away from the wall. "Come here, please, hurry up!" Miss Raydor didn't move. "Come on! We only have a few minutes!"

"All right, all right," Miss Raydor said, rolling her eyes. She walked forward, finally, until she was standing closer in front of Brenda. "You're such a silly girl. You don't even speak French."

"Talk in it," Brenda heard herself say, instead of what she'd thought she would say. "It's so pretty when you do, tell me something in French."

"No. I don't want to."

"You've got to! Please hurry, there isn't time!" Brenda suddenly remembered something. "He's on his way, isn't he?"

"Who?"

"Your boyfriend! The man who sent you the wine!" Weren't they the same person? Why couldn't she remember?

Miss Raydor recoiled, taking a step backwards. Brenda tried to reach out, to grab her, but she couldn't move. "Wait! You don't have to go. We can hide here, maybe he won't find you here. Then you can talk to me in French all you want." Hope, warm and buoyant, suddenly filled Brenda's chest, and she smiled. "You could teach me, even. I'm smart."

"No, you're not. You're a dumb blonde, and you're a brat." Brenda's warm hope vanished, and she pressed herself harder back against the wall. "I don't want to teach you anything, and I have to go find my boyfriend now."

"No. Wait! Take, take off your glasses before you go," Brenda begged. "I just want to look."

Miss Raydor sighed again, and took off her glasses. She was still standing close, so close that Brenda could see the hazel flecks in her eyes, and the little lines around her mouth, and the tiny mole on her cheek.

"Why are you so awful to me?" Brenda whispered. "I'm not what you think I am. You're horrible and hateful."

"I like everyone but you," Miss Raydor pointed out helpfully.

"You're awful!" Brenda's throat felt hot and clogged, and then she started to cry. "You are simply awful!"

"Lady Macbeth dies," Miss Raydor said, "and everyone loves me."

"They don't even know you! And none of them are here, it's just you and me here—" Tears were running down Brenda's face in earnest now. "Won't you please hurry up? It's almost too late."

"It's already too late."

Miss Raydor stepped forward, crowding Brenda against the wall. Then she just stood there, pressed against her, their noses less than an inch apart.

"Cherchez la femme," she said.

"Oh my Lord," Brenda gasped, and woke up.

The room was dark. Her bedroom. She was alone, tangled in the sheets, and sweaty and hot as if she had the flu. Swimming out of the dream, she mumbled, "Don't go, leave me alone." Her eyes were wet and stinging with tears, but when her hips moved, she felt a sudden, desperate pulse of pleasure. She realized that she'd wedged a hand between her thighs while she slept.

Whimpering, she yanked her hand free, and her eyes sought the clock. She could barely see the big red numbers that read 1:04. She'd probably been asleep for less than an hour. If she went back to sleep right now, she knew, she'd start dreaming again. Miss Raydor might be waiting for her in the alley. Ready to pounce.

She clapped a hand over her mouth and stumbled out of bed. She made it to the bathroom just in time. Snails and goose liver tasted even worse coming up than they had going down.

She flushed the mess away, and knelt on the tile floor, breathing heavily. Her abdomen ached. A couple of minutes later, she threw up again.

As she expected, her momma came knocking on the door, let herself in, murmured kind words and wiped the sweat off Brenda's brow, then gave her a glass of water to rinse her mouth out.

"Told you I didn't wanna go," Brenda groaned as Willie Rae washed the vomit out of the ends of her hair.

Willie Rae sighed. "Well, you didn't have to go and try everything different." She drew a comb through the damp tangles. "Are you going to be sick again, dear?"

"Don't think so." It didn't feel like there was anything left. She was never eating French food again.

"Let's get you back to bed, then. You can keep home from church tomorrow. I'll stay with you." Willie Rae rubbed her back. "We'll give you some ginger ale and let you rest. You've been working too hard, honey."

"It was just the food," Brenda mumbled as she stared at the wreck of her bed, the tangled sweaty sheets she'd barely managed to free herself from. "It was awfully—" What had Miss Raydor said? "Rich."

"In bed," Willie Rae said firmly, straightening out the sheets while Brenda stood watching her, swaying in place. "Thank goodness you made it to the bathroom. You lie down. I'll put a wastebasket by the bed just in case."

"Okay." Brenda lay down on her back and looked up at the ceiling, kind of seasick. Good thing she didn't have school or practice tomorrow. Right at the moment, she felt a little as if she were made of very thin glass, glass that already had tiny cracks running through it. Just a little pressure and she would shatter into pieces.

Tomorrow was Sunday. A nice, quiet Sunday when she didn't have to go anywhere. Willie Rae probably wouldn't even let her leave the house. Brenda had a whole day to rest before she had to go back to school. She'd be right by Monday. She just knew she'd be right as rain. These cracks would seal up again. And nothing could break her.

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TBC. Thanks again for all the feedback, everybody. It means a lot to me!


	11. Chapter 11

Check it out, an update at long last. I actually posted another _Closer_ story a few days ago, but I felt as if it didn't have a place on FFN. It's on my Livejournal (handle: somniesperus) if anybody is interested.

Thanks again for the reviews. That said, I wish people wouldn't leave comments (especially anonymous ones) that only complain about the wait between updates. It doesn't affect the pace at which I write. I write and update whenever I can, and I like to please readers, but hopefully people can understand that I have more going on in my life than writing fanfic! Now, on with the story...

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Ginger ale, saltines, and a dinner of chicken broth did wonders for Brenda's stomach on Sunday. She couldn't say they did much for her head. She felt jittery, jumpy, and every little noise made her twitch. She knew that she'd dreamed on Sunday night about stumbling across that couple in the alley again, but the details had faded when she'd woken up.

As she headed to school with her father on Monday morning, Brenda caught herself wondering if she was going to throw up again, and if she did, if that would be a good thing. She didn't want to miss school—she hated getting behind—but she wasn't ready to be here. Why not, though? Her stomach should be settled. That horrible food was long since all gone. There was no reason to feel like this.

"You sure you're okay, honey?" Clay asked as Brenda prepared to get out of the car. "You look peaky."

"I'm fine, Daddy."

"Well, you know to call your momma if you get sick again." He patted her arm.

"Yes, sir." Brenda managed a smile as he leaned in to kiss her cheek. She did know that. Willie Rae, too, had been concerned this morning by how pale Brenda was.

No, Brenda knew she had to be here, but she didn't want to be. As she made her way down the hallway, pressing through the crowd on her way to history, she realized that she could barely hear the conversation of her fellow students because her heart was pounding. It was pounding so hard that the blood beat in her ears. She felt overheated. Her mouth was dry. With every step she took towards Miss Raydor's classroom, she got dizzier.

Oh, she could not be here. She could not do this. She had to call her mother. She was obviously sicker than she'd thought, much sicker than when she'd gotten out of bed. She needed to go home. Maybe not for the whole day. Maybe just the morning. Yes, maybe she could call her mother, and sit at home until lunch time, and then come back...

She'd have to ask Miss Raydor, though. The bell was about to ring. Brenda needed permission to go to the nurse's office and make the call. She'd have to look her in the eye and talk to her—

But when she arrived at the classroom, Miss Raydor wasn't there. Her seat at the desk was empty. Her bag wasn't on the floor. The room was much louder than usual, since everybody was talking in the absence of the teacher.

Brenda sat down, wondering why her hands were shaking worse than ever. "Where is she?" she asked David.

He shrugged. "No idea. Are you okay? You look kind of weird."

"I—of course I'm—"

Just then, somebody walked in. Not Miss Raydor, though. It was Mr. Provenza, the most unlikely art teacher in the world. He'd been the football coach before Coach Pope came along, and had refused to retire, so they'd made him teach art instead.

Brenda liked taking art with Mr. Provenza. He never made them paint or draw anything; instead he propped his feet up on the desk and read the newspaper, and sent anybody who dared to talk to Principal Delk's office. It was the best study opportunity Brenda had all day. But what was he doing here?

"Everybody shut up," Mr. Provenza said as he stomped towards Miss Raydor's desk. Sure enough, he had that day's _Journal-Constitution _folded up and tucked under one arm. "If you're in my art class, you know the drill. Get out your notes and study or whatever, and don't say a word until the bell rings."

Everyone stared at him. Mike raised a hesitant hand. "Uh, where's Miss Raydor?" he asked.

Mr. Provenza shrugged irritably and sat down. "She's gone out of town. Some kind of family emergency back in New York. None of your business, in other words."

"When will she be back?" Amy asked. "The open house is Friday night, is she gonna be back for that?"

"What am I, her travel agent?" Mr. Provenza asked. "From what Principal Delk told me, she'll be gone this week. That's all I know."

"All week?" Brenda said.

"Beats me. But probably. Now…"

"All week?" Brenda repeated.

Mr. Provenza scowled at her. "I can see why you're valedictorian."

Brenda knew, sort of, that everybody was laughing at her, but she wasn't really taking it on board. All she could do was stare at Mr. Provenza, sitting in Miss Raydor's chair and glaring at everybody when Miss Raydor ought to be standing at the blackboard in her suit.

Today was supposed to have been the Princes in the Tower. But she wasn't here.

It was a family emergency? Miss Raydor had family? Well—well of course she did. Brenda told herself to stop being silly as she looked at her notes and didn't read a word of them. Just because she came from New York didn't mean…even Yankees had family. Miss Raydor had a Yankee family and a Yankee boyfriend. Maybe it was even the boyfriend's emergency. Maybe he was really sick or something and that's why he wasn't visiting her down south. Maybe he was going to die of some horrible disease and she'd gone to be with him at the end.

Or maybe it was something else. Something with her momma or daddy or grandparents or brother or sister or…she came from somewhere. She came from people. She had a story. She had secrets.

And she wasn't here.

For three days, Miss Raydor kept on not being anywhere. Each day a new teacher subbed in for the class. On Tuesday, it was Coach Pope, who winked at Brenda as he entered the room, but she could barely manage a half-smile in response. And he, too, didn't know where Miss Raydor was or why she was gone. Each morning, the students asked, and each morning, the teachers had nothing to report except "It's a family matter and she'll be back soon."

People speculated, of course. Especially Miss Raydor's girls. They latched onto the boyfriend idea too. Except instead of him dying, they seemed to think Miss Raydor was going to come back to Atlanta with a ring on her finger. Or maybe she wouldn't even come back at all, maybe she'd get married and stay in New York with him, wouldn't that be so _romantic? _

Of course it wouldn't, Brenda thought as she looked out of the window during German class on Wednesday. It wasn't romantic at all to leave people stranded! Miss Raydor hadn't left lesson plans, so the class was three full days behind. All they could do was read the history textbook and complete the worksheets Miss Raydor had apparently made up at the beginning of the term in case she had to be absent. Which wasn't as good as a real lesson. Brenda didn't think she was learning nearly enough.

How absolutely unprofessional. Miss Raydor'd have her work cut out for her when she came back, trying to play catch-up. They all would. If she came back.

She had to come back. She just had to. Brenda was sick to death of accidentally looking around for her in the hallway before remembering that she wasn't there. How could she be expected to work like this? And what about the end-of-year state history exam? If Brenda wasn't prepared because of these three days—if she failed the test and didn't get into Georgetown—all because Miss Raydor wasn't here, doing her job…

How was this possible? How could things be so horrible whenever Miss Raydor was around, but even worse when she wasn't?

"Ahem. Brenda."

Brenda jumped in her seat, turning away from the window to see Herr Schmidt frowning at her. The rest of the class was staring. He'd asked her a question.

She swallowed. "_Tut mir leid, Sir. Wiederholen Sie die Frage?_"

Herr Schmidt shook his head. _"Bist du krank?"_

Brenda ducked her head and shook it. "_ bin nicht krank._ _Es tut mir leid_," she repeated.

But she wasn't at all sure that was the truth. Maybe she really was sick. Something was wrong. It couldn't be her stomach, not any more. It was something worse, something deeper. The cracks in the glass were growing. She felt shaky, more fragile and frightened than ever. Maybe she should think about it. Try to figure out what it was.

No. She didn't want to do that. This feeling, whatever it was, she didn't want to think about it. It couldn't be that important. She wasn't going to think about it, she was going to ignore it, and eventually it was going to go away and it wouldn't matter anymore. It didn't even matter now. She'd wait, and concentrate on her studies, and cheerleading, and Fritz (who seemed kind of worried). She'd wait it out. She'd beat it. Right as rain.

Miss Raydor would come back, and Brenda wouldn't think about anything, and all would be well with the world. The End.

Then Brenda showed up on Thursday morning to see Miss Raydor standing at the front of the classroom. She almost tripped over her own two feet. She hadn't been expecting, she hadn't heard—she wasn't ready, wasn't prepared—

She fell into her seat and stared, trying to take everything in at once. Miss Raydor's hair and suit and glasses were exactly the same. So were her hands: no ring on her finger. She didn't seem sad, or elated, or anything that might indicate something of consequence had taken place. She looked as if she'd never left. Nearly a week's absence had left no mark on her; meanwhile, Brenda felt like something the cat dragged in.

"But everything's okay now?" Amy Sykes pressed, and Brenda realized she'd just missed the explanation of whatever had happened.

"Everything is perfectly fine. Thank you for your concern," Miss Raydor said, picking up a piece of chalk just as the bell rang.

Everything wasn't perfectly fine. Brenda knew that deep in her bones, even though it didn't make any sense. There was no reason everything should still feel wrong now that Miss Raydor was home and everything was back to normal. But the world was upside-down and she didn't know why or what to do about it.

Miss Raydor pivoted on her heel and raised her arm, chalk in hand. She wrote on the board: "The Princes in the Tower."

"Yes!" Sam Peckendorf said, pumping his fist in the air.

"I thought we were going to have to skip that," Mike added, making Brenda blink, because he rarely spoke up in class. "We read about it on Monday in the book."

"Oh, but I promised, Mr. Tao," Miss Raydor said. She glanced over her shoulder and flashed a grin at Mike. "The Princes are two of my favorites. I'm not skipping them."

"Anything for a good murder," Noah said, nodding in satisfaction.

"My thoughts exactly," Miss Raydor replied, turning her head back to the board. As she did, her eyes met Brenda's.

Brenda felt heat rush up to her face, and sweat broke out on her palms and in the small of her back. All at once she felt that same clenching terror she'd known in her dream—when they'd been in the alley and she'd known disaster was imminent.

Something bad was on the way. Brenda didn't know how to stop it because she didn't know what it was.

Miss Raydor raised her eyebrows and blinked, but then turned back to the board as if she hadn't noticed anything.

The rest of the class passed by in a dim haze. Brenda wrote down everything Miss Raydor put on the board. She didn't understand any of it, didn't recognize the letters that her pen looped onto the page; she just had to hope that it would all make sense when she looked at it again later. And the whole time Miss Raydor was talking, her voice warm and bright with enthusiasm, but the words themselves just went in one of Brenda's ears and out the other. Why couldn't she concentrate? She'd been looking forward to learning about the Princes. It hadn't been at all satisfying to read about them in the textbook.

Then the bell rang, sudden and shocking. Brenda gasped, but the sound was lost as people closed their notebooks and began opening their backpacks. It took a few seconds before she remembered that she had to leave too. She didn't want to. Her knees felt weak, her feet heavy. It would be much easier to keep sitting here, even if she had to hear about the Princes all day long.

But she couldn't do that. With some effort, she rose to her feet and slung her backpack over her shoulder. Thanks to her dallying, she was once again the last one out the door. She couldn't help glancing towards the chalkboard again, where Miss Raydor was erasing the notes Brenda had so blindly copied down.

When she looked, though, she saw that Miss Raydor had stopped erasing and was looking right back at Brenda instead. Brenda froze. Miss Raydor pursed her lips, set the eraser down, and took a step forward.

"Miss Johnson," she began, "are you all—"

Brenda turned and fled through the door, not waiting for Fritz, not waiting for anything. Behind her, she heard Miss Raydor call "Miss Johnson!" again, but she didn't pause. She practically ran towards Trig, and almost cried out with relief when the bell rang and Mr. Ferguson closed the door, sealing the classroom up like a fortress.

But for some reason, after that, math went fine. It was as if the shutting of that door had shut out Brenda's problems and she found it easier to breathe. It wasn't difficult to look at or listen to Mr. Ferguson at all. No problem. By the end of class, she felt very nearly fine, and was able to take Fritz's hand on the way to English.

Normalcy itself came as such a relief, the knowledge that the feelings from this morning weren't going to last forever. Whatever they'd been—whyever she'd been so upset—didn't matter now. The main thing, as she'd already realized, was not to think about it.

In fact, everything was just peachy until lunch was nearly over. Fritz gave her a Reese's cup and then kissed her cheek, saying, "I gotta go to the bathroom. Be right back, okay?"

"Sure," Brenda said, eagerly tearing open the orange paper and barely aware of his retreating footsteps. Oh, this was definitely better. She could already smell the chocolate, and when the first bite melted on her tongue, she moaned a little. Good thing she and Fritz had their own table today. David got unaccountably embarrassed by the noises she made when she ate candy. Silly boy.

She could lose herself in chocolate bliss until all the rest of the world went away. It was just how she liked it. She could eat a dozen of these at one go, if only she could get her hands on them, but even Fritz wasn't that generous, and her momma would never allow it at home.

Then, behind her, she heard the sound of boys laughing. They were at one of the jock tables. In the midst of the noise, without really intending to eavesdrop, she caught the word "Raydor."

The chocolate turned to a bland smear on her tongue. Suddenly she couldn't concentrate on her candy, or on anything else in the world, to save her life. She could only listen.

"How did you see it?" That was Noah, sounding eager. "She wears those jackets all the time."

"Well, she had the jacket off when I saw her." Brenda recognized the voice of Everett Wilkinson, a linebacker who couldn't get into an honors class if a butler held the door open. "She bent over and I _saw_ it, man."

"How much of it?"

Something in Brenda's stomach curdled. Maybe the carrot sticks.

"Just a strap, but I'm telling you: it's red."

"Red?" Sam Peckendorf asked reverently. "Seriously?"

"_Bright_ red," Everett said in satisfaction. "And you know she's filling it out just right, too."

"Man, you're a perv," Noah said.

"Like you never think about it, asshole," Sam laughed.

"You know, I used to think she was a dyke until she brought that guy to the game," Everett said.

"Hey, shut up," Sam replied, sounding a little more serious now. "She's cool, man. Why you do you have to say something like that?"

Crinkle. Squish. Brenda looked down and saw that she'd crushed her half-eaten Reese's cup and now had melted chocolate and peanut butter all over her fingertips.

"Lighten up," Everett said. His voice became low, eager, cunning as he said, "Talk about dykes, I found these magazines my dad has? They've got pictures of two women making out. No, no, man, it's not gross, you gotta see it—"

"You are sick, Ev," Noah said, but he was laughing too.

"Yeah, you laugh now. Shit, they're like, naked and kissing, and I have to tell you, two is better than one—"

Brenda slammed her hand down on the table, sticky chocolate and all, before rising to her feet and turning on the boys with a snarl. They looked up at her, surprised, as she loomed over them.

"What is wrong with you?" she asked shrilly, ignoring the people around them who looked up. "Talking like that where anybody can hear!"

Noah's mouth opened and closed. Sam said weakly, "Um, hey, Brenda—sorry, uh, we—"

"Wow," Everett said, giving her a half smile. "Somebody's got a stick up her ass."

"You!" Brenda jabbed a shaking, chocolate-covered finger at him. "Everett Wilkinson, your daddy is a deacon at our church, and I bet Pastor Blake would just love to know about his magazines and the way you talk about 'em all over the place!"

Now Everett went pale. "Uh—" He looked around to see that more and more people were starting to pay attention. He dropped his voice to a whisper as he said, "Jeez, I'm sorry, just shut up, okay?"

"_Ooh!" _Brenda turned around, her ears buzzing and roaring with blood as she snatched up her backpack and stormed out of the cafeteria, knowing that Fritz would return to an empty table and probably a lot of gossip. But she didn't care. She just couldn't stay here another minute. Not with talk like that!

She sucked on her fingertips as she headed out of the cafeteria and into the hallway, but even the taste of chocolate and peanut butter gave her no comfort now. Where to go? Maybe she should just hide in the girls' bathroom until lunch was out. She needed to be alone for just a minute or two, get her head together…

Then, as she rounded a corner, she heard: "Miss Johnson?"

Brenda's eyes widened. She slowly turned on her heel, one fingertip still in her mouth, to see Miss Raydor clacking towards her with a frown on her face.

"Miss Johnson," she repeated, her voice dropping into a low murmur as she drew closer. Everett had been right. At some point that morning, Miss Raydor had taken off her suit jacket to reveal a crisp green blouse tucked into her navy skirt. The green was slightly darker than her eyes. And her eyes had those little flecks of hazel. How had Brenda known that well enough to dream about it so vividly?

"I wanted to talk to you," Miss Raydor continued. "You didn't seem at all well in class today. Is something the matter?"

If Everett had been telling the truth about the jacket, maybe he'd also been telling the truth about the bra. Miss Raydor wore red bras? That was just…that was just _loose._ Brenda could imagine Willie Rae's face if Brenda ever picked out something like that in the store. What sort of respectable woman walked around wearing a red bra under her clothes?

"Miss Johnson?" Miss Raydor's voice pulled Brenda back into reality. Her eyebrows were drawn together and she looked genuinely worried. "Why do you have your finger in your mouth?"

Brenda immediately pulled her finger out with a wet pop. The chocolate was all gone. In the back of her mind, Everett's voice prattled on about red bras, and naked women kissing, and two was better than one, and who did this woman think she was, walking around without her jacket so any fool could get a glimpse of—

In the end, Brenda only had one answer to Miss Raydor's question.

"It's none of your damn Yankee business why I do anything," she rasped.

Miss Raydor's eyes widened. She drew in a sharp breath. And Brenda knew she'd gotten to her. For the first time—she could see it right there on that woman's face—

She had about one second to enjoy it before a deep voice said behind her, "Is that so?"

Brenda spun around to see Principal Delk standing a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest and a very cold expression on his face. And it didn't take any brains at all to know that she was in a whole world of trouble now.


	12. Chapter 12

Principal Delk told Miss Raydor not to accompany him and Brenda to his office. He said he wanted to make sure Brenda was good and sorry before they spoke again.

Brenda was sorry, all right. Sorry she'd gotten out of bed that morning, sorry that she'd overheard Everett's dirty talk, and above all else, sorry that she'd been caught cussing out a teacher. She was definitely sorry to be sitting in Principal Delk's office while he, having ascertained that Willie Rae would be at home, dialed up Brenda's house and told on her. And after that, Brenda was sorry to molder in the detention room for the rest of the afternoon.

But somehow she wasn't sorry for what she'd actually said. She knew she ought to be. For once, Miss Raydor had done nothing wrong—she hadn't deserved Brenda's backtalk. And yet Brenda found she didn't regret it a bit. How could she? It'd felt like the only thing she could conceivably have done in that moment. So she couldn't be blamed for doing it.

She doubted her parents would see it that way.

They didn't.

Instead, that night, they all sat around the kitchen table while Willie Rae and Clay just stared at her. When Clay had stopped by school to pick her up, he hadn't said a thing. Hadn't even looked at her. And as soon as she got inside the house, Willie Rae only said, "Not a word, Brenda Leigh. You go to your room and stay there while I talk to your father."

Brenda knew she was in for it then. Waiting was the worst. She wished her mother would just go ahead and scold her, and then her father could switch her legs a few times and get it over with. The fact that they hadn't—the fact that they were waiting—must mean they were really, really angry.

So she'd hidden in her room and failed at concentrating on biology. She shivered when she thought of her parents' wrath; then she remembered Miss Raydor's wide green eyes, her little gasp of shock, and shivered for what felt like a different reason entirely. There was no way she could explain that to her parents.

Now they looked at her from their seats at the table, and Brenda was surprised to see that they didn't look very angry. Instead, they looked disappointed—and worried.

"Brenda Leigh," Willie Rae said after a minute, "is there something you want to tell us?"

"Yes, ma'am." Brenda licked her lips nervously. "I'm sorry."

"No, honey," Willie Rae said, to her astonishment. "I mean, is there anything else?"

Brenda blinked. "W-what?"

"This ain't like you," Clay said. "And you was sick last weekend, and you ain't looked too good these last few days neither."

Brenda nearly gasped. Could it really be this easy? Could she make an excuse and get away unscathed?

But then Willie Rae added, "But remember, Principal Delk said she talked back to Miss Raydor earlier this year, too." Brenda's shoulders slumped. She should have known her mother wouldn't forget that part. "And you've never liked her, honey. You used to complain about her all the time, even when you started doing well."

"But you haven't in a while," Clay added.

Brenda realized that was true. At some point, she'd given up on talking about Miss Raydor at home, just because her parents never listened to her. "No, sir," she managed.

"Brenda." Willie Rae bit her lip. "Is something going on? Is there—" She spread her hands. "Is there something we ought to know about?"

Brenda gulped as she felt it return, the terror, out of nowhere. She twisted her hands where she had them clasped in her lap. "Like what? What do you mean?"

Willie Rae glanced at Clay. Brenda realized she'd never seen her mother looking so acutely helpless. "Well, I…I don't rightly know."

"Just ain't like you," Clay repeated. "We wanna give you the benefit of the doubt. You've always been a good girl."

A good girl. The terror ratcheted up tenfold. Brenda's palms were so sweaty that her hands slipped and slid together.

"Has this lady…" Willie Rae paused. "Brenda Leigh, has your teacher ever done something, or said something—I mean to say, has she ever done anything wrong?"

Only five minutes ago, Brenda would have been able to list a thousand of Miss Raydor's sins. Now, sitting down with her concerned parents, all that boiled away. She could only see Willie Rae and Clay's open, honest faces.

Everything collided in a rush, everything that she'd tried so hard to keep separate. She'd been one person at school and another person when she came home. The Brenda who sassed Miss Raydor, who hated her, wasn't the Brenda who _yes-ma'am-yes-sir_'d her parents. Now, for the first time, she had to be both.

And because she was a good girl, because they trusted her, there was nothing for it but the truth. "No, Momma," she said, feeling tears gathering in her eyes. "She's never done a thing. I just don't like her. She makes me mad. I don't know why."

"Brenda Leigh, are you tellin' the truth?" her father demanded.

"Yes, sir," Brenda gulped, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. "I'm so sorry, Daddy. I don't know why I did it."

This was it, she knew. The moment when she got the scolding and the whipping. There was no excuse for her behavior, and she wasn't going to get away with it.

Willie Rae and Clay sighed. They exchanged glances. Then Clay said, "Dry your eyes. Get ready to help your momma with supper."

Brenda blinked and sniffled, wiping her cheek again. "Huh?"

"I've said it before: you have been working too hard, and you are not well, Brenda Leigh," Willie Rae said. "It won't do any good to punish you. And I'm keeping you home again tomorrow. You get some sleep, you calm down, and you think about what you did."

This time, Brenda did gasp. She couldn't believe it. All she had to do was miss school on Friday? There wasn't even a football game this week to worry about. It was too good to be—

"Think about it good and hard," Clay added firmly. "Because we got the open house tomorrow night, and we're going, and you are going to apologize to your teacher for what you said today."

—true.

"Yes, sir," Brenda croaked. Then she managed to add, "Thank you."

"You're growing up, Brenda Leigh," Willie Rae said. "This time next year you'll be on your own at school. You need to start acting like an adult and taking responsibility for yourself. So you're gonna do that tomorrow night."

"Yes, ma'am," Brenda said, and helped her mother prepare dinner in a daze. This was a nightmare. She would a thousand times have preferred to get switched and lectured.

Tomorrow night. Her parents were going to meet Miss Raydor tomorrow night, and Brenda would have to be there, and apologize to her in front of her parents and anybody else who happened to be visiting the classroom at the same time. That's what an open house was. Open.

At least she didn't have to be at school tomorrow, though. She wouldn't have to look at Miss Raydor all through first period and dread what was to happen at night. Especially if word got around about what she'd done.

She called Fritz after dinner and told him she wasn't going to be at school the next day. He would have noticed anyway, but she wanted to tell him herself, just in case he picked up any gossip and got the wrong idea about something.

Too late. "I heard you got sent to detention," he said. "But you left school before I could come talk to you."

Brenda bit her lip. "Daddy came and picked me up early."

"What happened? All I heard was that you yelled at that idiot Everett at lunch."

"That wasn't why!" Brenda gasped, furious to think that someone might think she was in trouble for such a thing.

"Then what?"

That brought Brenda up short. Perhaps she shouldn't have been so hasty in her denial. If Fritz hadn't heard about what happened between Principal Delk, Miss Raydor, and Brenda, then probably nobody had. It'd just been the three of them alone in the hallway, after all.

That must mean Miss Raydor hadn't tattled. Not even to her precious girls. Brenda blinked.

"Brenda?" Fritz prompted.

Brenda gulped. "Well, maybe it did have a little something to do with it." It wasn't really, totally a lie, was it? Everett's stupid dirty talk was why she'd been in the hallway in the first place.

Fritz sighed and then chuckled. "You should have waited for me to come back. Then I could have hit him and we'd have been in detention together."

"Oh, Fritzy," Brenda said, trying not to laugh in case her parents heard. She didn't have a phone in her bedroom, so she had to use the one in the living room, and they were just in the den, watching TV. "Is that your idea of a romantic good time?"

"Any time's a romantic good time with you," he said. This time he sounded much more serious. Too serious. "You really won't be at school tomorrow?"

"No." Brenda fiddled with the ends of her hair. "Momma wants me to stay home and get a little rest."

"Sounds like a good idea. I'll miss you, though."

"Well…I'll be back," Brenda said weakly. "And I'll be at the open house on Friday night, won't you?"

"No. Remember my family's going to Charleston for the weekend? I won't be back until late Sunday night."

"Oh, that's right," said Brenda, who'd forgotten completely. "Of course, of course."

"I'll miss you," Fritz repeated. "I think about you, uh, a lot. When you're not around." He paused. "I like having you around. It feels weird when you're not." He cleared his throat. "I just wanted to tell you that. Okay?"

Brenda squirmed, not sure what to do or how to feel. That was a lovely thing for him to say, just lovely, of course, but—for heaven's sake, he could have given her some warning. Especially after the terrible day she'd had. "Okay," she said. Wait, was something more called for? "Me too."

That seemed to satisfy him, and he left her with promises that he wouldn't do anything stupid to Everett the next day, but would instead have a good time in Charleston. Then she did a bit of homework until ten o'clock, when Willie Rae caught her at it, told her very firmly to put away the books, and made her go to bed.

It was good advice. Brenda was exhausted. The day had wrung her dry with all its emotional ups and downs. Still, as she lay in bed, sleep was a long time coming. She was tired, but she couldn't calm her mind enough to doze off. She kept seeing Miss Raydor's stunned expression as Brenda threw her concern in her face.

She tried to think about something else. Cheerleading, maybe. The football season would be over next week, but that didn't mean Brenda could get lazy. She and Coach Daniels needed to sit down and plan strategy for baseball season in the spring. Or perhaps Brenda could think about her biology lab report that she had to turn in on Wednesday. Maybe her mother would let her work on that, at least.

Biology finally got her to sleep, but it didn't follow her into her dreams. Instead, Brenda found herself standing in the history classroom next to Everett Wilkinson. The only other person in the room was Miss Raydor, who was erasing the chalkboard over and over again even though nothing was on it. She was wearing the green blouse and didn't seem to notice that Brenda and Everett were there.

"I think I saw her in my dad's magazines," Everett said.

"You did not," Brenda said, curling her hands into fists at her side. "You didn't see a thing. I bet you didn't even see her bra, you liar, and you got me in all that trouble."

"Oh yeah? I'm going to ask her to take her shirt off and let me look."

"You won't!" Brenda gasped. "She won't do it!"

Everett leered at Brenda. "I'll ask nicely. She likes me better than you."

"Shut up! Nobody likes you! I'll tell the preacher!"

This time, the threat didn't faze him. "I'm not scared of the preacher. Are you?"

"No," Brenda said, realizing it for the first time. "I'm not scared of you either." She paused. "You're a dirty rotten jerk, and I'm going to detention all by myself."

Then she punched him square in the nose.

Then she woke up.

She thought muzzily, _That wasn't too bad, _before she rolled over, went back to sleep, and dreamed about stuff she forgot in the morning.

* * *

TBC. Feedback is much appreciated!


	13. Chapter 13

She kept busy the next day. Not with homework: Willie Rae absolutely forbade it. Her mother permitted her to sleep in, but once she was up, Brenda found herself vacuuming the carpets, dusting the furniture, scrubbing the toilets, and sweeping the walk. There was a brief break—sort of—when she and Willie Rae shelled peas while watching _Guiding Light_ after lunch.

"Your daddy doesn't approve," Willie Rae admitted, "but you can just get so darn hooked on these shows, Brenda Leigh. Just so long as you know they don't promote good behavior, I suppose it's all right."

"Don't worry, Momma," Brenda said as they learned that Amanda was actually Alan's daughter by another woman she'd never heard of and who hadn't raised her. "I know."

This was her mother's life. Staying home, cleaning house, preparing food, watching soap operas, running errands, sometimes having lunch with friends. Getting up the next day and doing it all over again. Willie Rae never complained. But what did that mean? Brenda realized, in the middle of discarding an empty bean shell, that she had no idea what her mother thought about her lot in life. She'd always seemed happy enough.

Brenda wouldn't be. She didn't want what her mother had. Taking care of a man, a house, a child—she didn't think she'd be terribly suited to it. She needed to get out of here, go to college, see the world.

She couldn't do that if she kept sabotaging herself by melting down at school, flying off the handle, and making her parents worry so much that they kept her at home. She had to get a grip, and fast. Perhaps she really had needed this day off. It was making her reassess her priorities, that was for sure.

Plus, working had kept her from dwelling on what was to come tonight. Willie Rae might have intended Brenda to rest her mind, but she also said idle hands were the devil's workshop; given that Brenda had barely even thought about the open house all day, she supposed her mother must have a point. It was a mercy.

But at seven o'clock, her father ordered all of them into the car so they could drive over to the school. Brenda's nerves were back, and how. She couldn't stop picturing how it was bound to go: Miss Raydor in her suit and her daddy in his Sunday shirt and tie, apologizing for Brenda before making Brenda apologize for herself. Willie Rae standing by the while. Brenda would rather have gone before a firing squad; it was going to feel like that anyway.

"You been thinkin' about your apology, Brenda?" Clay asked, looking at Brenda through the rear view mirror.

"Yes," Brenda lied. She was deliberately not thinking about it, actually. Surely when she was face-to-face with Miss Raydor it would all come out okay. She only had to apologize. It couldn't be that complicated—just painful.

"Well, make it a good one," Clay grunted before turning his eyes back to the road. Willie Rae turned her head just enough to give Brenda an encouraging smile.

Brenda gulped.

They arrived at seven-fifteen. The open house had already been going on for half an hour, and would end at eight. After they entered the school, Brenda glanced around the crowded hallways. Open houses always gave her an opportunity to test her observational skills. New elements in a familiar space: new people, parents and guardians and others who weren't usually in the school halls. A portly old man in suspenders, a redhead in a green dress, a father and mother joined at the hip like Brenda's own parents. She waved at her friends whenever they crossed paths. To her immense relief, nobody gave her a knowing glance, as if they'd heard how much trouble she'd landed in.

Clay and Willie Rae stopped by Mr. Ferguson's class first. It didn't take long. Brenda was making an A in Trig, and was as well-behaved as she could be. Then they went to Mr. Taylor's class to talk about English. Where Brenda was making an A, and was as well-behaved as she could be. And then biology...

Of course they'd save history for last. Of course. Drag out the torture. And yet, as the evening wore on, Brenda dared to relax. She hadn't yet seen Miss Raydor in the milling crowd. Maybe she'd decided to stay home tonight? Good riddance. Brenda's parents were already disappointed enough-the last thing she needed was for them to see in person how Miss Raydor got her dander up, made her fume and spit even when she knew better. Surely she could apologize another time, when she'd had longer than twenty-four hours to brace herself for it.

But the door to the history classroom stood open, so Brenda followed her parents inside with her head hung low and her shoulders hunched, in spite of Willie Rae's warning elbow to her ribs. "Now, we're gonna sort this out, Brenda Leigh," her mother muttered. "There's been enough foolishness."

"Yes, ma'am," Brenda mumbled, looking around the room. Andy Flynn's parents were leaving (sans Andy himself), and they smiled and nodded at Clay and Willie Rae. But the only other person in the room was that redhead Brenda had seen earlier, the one in the green dress, looking out the windows, and...

The redhead was wearing elegant black pumps with an unusually high heel. She pivoted neatly to face them, and Brenda nearly fainted, because it was Miss Raydor.

It was Miss Raydor in a pretty green dress that ended just above the knee; Miss Raydor without her glasses; Miss Raydor with her long hair (red—no, brown—no, both?) falling softly around her face and shoulders, instead of pulled back in a bun. She saw the Johnsons hovering in the doorway of her classroom and gave them all a welcoming smile. "Mr. and Mrs. Johnson," she said. "Hello."

That _fake! _That _phony! _

Brenda heard her father shuffle and clear his throat awkwardly, and felt her mother elbow her again, but she could hardly pay attention for staring at Miss Raydor. What on earth was this supposed to be? Who was she trying to fool? She didn't look like this! Not even in the French restaurant had she looked like this. This lady could have just stepped out of a magazine. This wasn't Brenda's Miss Raydor.

Miss Raydor had never shown herself like this to Brenda. She'd hidden this from her, tucked it away, pretended like it was never there, and now she'd just decided to trot it out for the whole world to see. With no warning at all. It left Brenda feeling like she had a sock stuffed down her throat, or maybe like she'd been slapped across the face, or maybe both at the same time. She didn't know what to think or do.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Miss Raydor was saying as she shook Clay's hand, then Willie Rae's.

"You too, ma'am," Clay said, clearing his throat again. Brenda heard, with horror, a note of embarrassment in his voice. A note of...of deference, almost. Oh no. "We've, uh, you could say we've heard a lot about you."

"Oh, Clay," Willie Rae sighed. She smiled at Miss Raydor. "But we have."

Miss Raydor just kept smiling. "I'm sure you have. Good evening, Miss Johnson," she added, finally glancing at Brenda. The green dress was almost the same color as the blouse she'd worn yesterday. It brought out her eyes, which seemed bigger without the glasses in front of them, and somehow more penetrating—as if there was nothing between them and—

Yet again, Willie Rae elbowed Brenda, who managed, "Hi, Miss Raydor. You look different tonight." Well, she couldn't let it pass without comment, could she?

"Brenda," Willie Rae growled.

Miss Raydor merely said, "Why don't we all have a seat? I think all my other parents have already come and gone."

Clay rubbed the back of his neck, which was turning red. "We saved you for last," he admitted. "We was kind of hoping to catch you alone."

"Maybe we should have just asked you for a private conference," Willie Rae said as she nudged Brenda towards the desks. "It seemed—but, well, here we are."

"Here we are," Miss Raydor agreed, and sat down in a student desk next to Willie Rae, instead of behind her own desk. Then she smiled at Brenda's parents again, just as charming as...as...just as well-behaved as she could be.

"Well, let's start off on the right foot," Clay said. "Miss Raydor, Brenda Leigh here has something to say to you."

"Oh?" Miss Raydor asked, arching an eyebrow as she looked at Brenda. Yet again, Brenda caught herself searching desperately for tells: a triumphant gleam of the eye, a smirk, anything that would betray how much Miss Raydor was about to enjoy this. Yet again, there was nothing. That moment in the hallway might as well have never happened. She looked as blandly curious as if she had never seen Brenda before in her life.

Why? _Why? _No matter what Brenda did, what she said, it didn't even make a dent. Miss Raydor didn't care a bit, and meanwhile, just being around her was enough to make Brenda's feelings more than she could bear. All Miss Raydor had to do was look at her, and Brenda felt like she was drowning.

"I'm sorry," she husked.

After a moment, Clay prompted, "Go on, tell her what for." Miss Raydor never took her polite, attentive gaze from Brenda's face.

But no more words were coming. Brenda had to look away from that face, those eyes, all that beauty that had come out of nowhere and was fixing to kill her where she sat. She stared down at the top of the desk and repeated, "I'm sorry. I'm just—" No. She couldn't find the words. "Sorry."

"Brenda Leigh," Willie Rae said, aghast. "What's gotten into you?"

"It's all right, Mrs. Johnson," Miss Raydor said. "I get the idea." When Brenda managed to lift her head again, Miss Raydor wasn't looking at her at all, but at Clay and Willie Rae. "And I do appreciate your taking the time this evening. I was hoping we could meet."

"Well, this is just not like Brenda," Willie Rae said, leaning forward and placing an imploring hand on Brenda's shoulder. "We wouldn't want you to think it was."

"I know," Miss Raydor said, making Brenda blink. "Her other teachers sing her praises. Believe me, I've heard them." Her smile turned a little wry. She still didn't glance Brenda's way.

"And we've only heard good things about you," Willie Rae said. "I was talking to Trish McCollum's mother the other day, and she was telling me how much Trish enjoys your class."

"Your daughter is immensely gifted, Mrs. Johnson. I've known that from the start." Brenda's jaw dropped. Of course, that was the moment Miss Raydor deigned to glance at her, too late for Brenda to stop gaping like a fish.

For a moment, they looked into each others' eyes, and Brenda wondered if she was just going to burn up into ashes and char.

Then Miss Raydor looked away, cleared her throat, and said to Clay, "She's one of the most accomplished students I've met in my career. I can safely say I've never encountered anyone with her particular ability to reason their way through an issue. She'll go far if she cares to." She turned back to Brenda, but this time she didn't quite look her in the eye. She sort of looked at Brenda's nose instead while Brenda gazed helplessly at the fall of hair against her cheek. "Georgetown University, I believe, is her goal?"

"How did you know that?" Brenda blurted, jolted back into the conversation. She'd never spoken to Miss Raydor about her future plans!

"And there's no reason she shouldn't." Miss Raydor gave Clay and Willie Rae that charming smile again. "I checked their admissions standards. Your daughter has an excellent shot at getting in. Maybe even at a scholarship."

After a stunned silence, Clay said, "Really?"

"Georgetown?" Willie Rae squeaked. "Brenda Leigh's never mentioned..."

"Oh?" Miss Raydor looked thrown for the first time. "I'm sorry. Of course I thought you knew."

"We don't want her going so far off," Willie Rae said.

"A scholarship?" Clay asked. "You really think so?"

"Clay!"

"Now, honey, we don't just want to write it off—"

"I can't make any promises," Miss Raydor said hastily. She held up a hand. Brenda looked at the sapphire ring on her right ring finger. She didn't usually wear jewelry like that either. "I just thought you ought to know that it's hardly out of her reach. If your daughter is willing to put in the effort, she could—"

"I'm sitting right here!" Brenda cried.

Her parents turned to stare at her, apparently too appalled to speak. But Miss Raydor said, "Yes, you are." And then: "I apologize, Brenda Leigh."

For the rest of the conference, Miss Raydor continued to say things, and Brenda's parents continued to say things, but Brenda didn't hear or understand or care about any of it. Miss Raydor, she realized dimly, had never said her name before. What a stupid thing to notice, much less get worked up over. But also: _I apologize, _as graceful and easy as Brenda could never be. Like it was no big deal. Somehow, Miss Raydor even made contrition look effortless.

Nothing stung Brenda Leigh Johnson more than watching other people beat her at something. Regret and guilt grabbed at her guts. Her apology had been so half-baked and incoherent. Her parents would really let her have it later, and they'd be right. She had to do better.

Miss Raydor tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. Her earrings tonight were tiny gold hoops instead of the usual pearl studs. And she was so lovely.

And right at that moment, Brenda was finally as sorry about being mean to her as she'd ever been sorry for anything in her life; so sorry she might have cried, if it wouldn't have been humiliating and horrible.

She wasn't prepared when her parents and Miss Raydor rose to their feet, Clay shaking Miss Raydor's hand. The conference was over? How long had they been sitting here? What had everybody been saying?

"Thank you so much," Willie Rae said, shaking Miss Raydor's hand as well. "We really do appreciate everything you're doing for Brenda. For all your students, from what I hear."

Miss Raydor smiled. "It's my pleasure, Mrs. Johnson."

Clay cleared his throat. "Brenda Leigh?"

Brenda almost jumped. Every muscle in her body felt tight as a tensed wire. "H-huh?"

"Say good night and thank you," Clay said, with a glare that let Brenda know she wasn't off the hook by a long shot.

"Oh, um," Brenda said, and as chance would have it, she looked at Miss Raydor at the exact moment Miss Raydor flipped a lock of hair back over her shoulder. After the longest second of her life so far, Brenda managed, "G'night, thanks."

Miss Raydor nodded, still smiling, and still looking at Brenda's parents instead of her. "Good evening. So nice to meet both of you."

Brenda almost stumbled as she followed her parents down the hallway. This time, her parents' silence wasn't confused or disappointed. It was icy with disapproval. Brenda knew why, she understood, she agreed, she hadn't done any of that right—but what was she supposed to do now?

Disaster and punishment were forestalled for a moment when they all met Mr. and Mrs. Flynn outside the front doors. Brenda's parents stopped to chat, but Willie Rae made sure to glower at Brenda to let her know that the talking-to was only delayed, not forgotten. Brenda couldn't even bring herself to care as much as she should. She felt like ants were running all over her skin, like she couldn't hold still, and she'd done everything wrong—but Miss Raydor was gone now, so maybe Brenda could get her breath back just for a minute and think, and then she could…

Then, to her left, she saw someone exit the building from another door. Miss Raydor, heading for the parking lot. She had on her black coat. Her long hair bounced gently against her shoulders and her back as she descended the steps onto the pavement.

"Oh," Brenda gasped. "Wait just a minute, Momma, Daddy."

Clay turned from Bobby Flynn. "Brenda Leigh, I have had enough—"

"No, no," Brenda said, pointing to the parking lot. "Miss Raydor's going to her car. See? I'm going to apologize. I'm going to do it right this time. I promise. You can ask her if I don't."

"I can do better," Willie Rae said. "I can go with you."

"Wait, Willie Rae," Clay said, placing a hand on his wife's shoulder. "Let Brenda do this on her own. We can trust her to make things right. Can't we?" he added pointedly.

"Yes sir, Daddy, sir," Brenda said, glancing over her shoulder. Miss Raydor was nearly to her car. "I'll be right back!" Without waiting for more, she began to run towards the parking lot, her loafers crunching on the gravel.

She was almost too late. Miss Raydor had her car door open by the time Brenda called, "Wait! Ma'am, wait!"

Miss Raydor turned. Her face was illuminated enough by the full moon, and the glow from a nearby streetlight, that Brenda could see her frown. A frown of puzzlement? A scowl of anger? "Wait," she repeated as she skidded to a stop by Miss Raydor's Volvo, feeling more out of breath than the short jog had merited.

"What is it?" Miss Raydor asked, not closing the car door, as if she was ready to jump inside and drive off the very minute Brenda said something annoying.

"I just, I just wanted to say sorry," Brenda said, deciding to get it out before she could overthink it and ruin everything again. "I mean, I wanted to do it right this time. I messed up in the classroom."

Miss Raydor raised an eyebrow. "When your parents were watching?"

"Yeah," Brenda said, surprised at her perception.

"All right then," Miss Raydor said. Then there was silence, until she prompted: "Well?"

"Well what? Oh!" Brenda shook herself. "I guess…I _know_ I haven't been on my best behavior. At all. But I, I can do a lot better."

"I know you can."

"I just don't, I mean I haven't, because…" Now Brenda found herself pulling up short. She knew there was no excuse for how she'd behaved. How could she explain the inexplicable? Hoping for a strike of inspiration, she looked Miss Raydor full in the eye again, like a truthful person was supposed to do.

It was a mistake. How could Brenda have been so stupid? Yet again, those green eyes rendered her dumb. She couldn't think of a single thing to say. Brenda wanted to beg Miss Raydor to go home, put up her hair, and put on a suit, except that she somehow suspected even that wouldn't help.

Then, to her surprise, Miss Raydor saved her from herself. "It doesn't really matter why," she said. "Your reasons are your own. All that matters is that you're going to change. You are, aren't you?"

"Yes," Brenda gasped, so grateful for the reprieve. "Yes I am. And truly, I…I don't know why. You never did anything really bad to me."

Miss Raydor pursed her lips and glanced towards the street beyond the parking lot. "I haven't done anything bad to you at all. I've treated you the same as all my other students."

"Um. Yeah." Brenda tried not to squirm. "I know. So…I just wanted to say sorry. Sorry for everything. I'll do better."

"Thank you. That's all I ask." A stray breeze moved a strand of hair over Miss Raydor's lips. She blew it away, but she was wearing lipstick and the hair stuck to it for a second. Then she opened the car door a little wider.

Now she was about to go and Brenda wouldn't see her until Monday. Wouldn't catch a glimpse of her for two more days. And even then, they wouldn't talk alone like this, and Miss Raydor certainly wouldn't look on Monday like she looked tonight. She wouldn't look so…so…

"Help me!" Brenda gasped.

Miss Raydor blinked. "Pardon?"

"I mean—" Oh, shoot. Think, think, think! "You said…I could get a scholarship?"

"Perhaps," Miss Raydor said cautiously.

"And, and, and you said—the first day of school, I remember…" In agony, Brenda wrung her hands. Think! "You said you'd help us with college applications and such. And you said you'd looked at Georgetown admissions stuff, right?"

Miss Raydor pressed her lips together before saying, "I did, yes."

"I know I don't have any right to ask this," Brenda said, holding her hands up in surrender, and accepting that inspiration had struck her after all. Even if a little part of her was insisting that this was a very bad idea. "I understand if you say no. I really do. But I thought it wouldn't hurt to ask if you'd…you know. Help me. With my application. That's all I meant."

Miss Raydor's eyes widened.

"I understand," Brenda repeated at once, taking a step back. Oh Lord, why did this woman have to make such a fool of her? "I've been just awful, I know that, I wouldn't want to if I were you. I just thought I'd ask. I'm sorry."

"I—" Miss Raydor cleared her throat and shook her head a little. "It's all right, Miss Johnson. I'm not offended. I'll help you."

Suddenly Brenda felt downright lightheaded. "Y-you will? Really?"

Miss Raydor pursed her lips again. Was that a tell? What sort? "I said I would," she said tersely, her gaze darting to the side. "If that's what you want."

Her tone brought Brenda up short. "I don't want to be a bother," she mumbled.

Miss Raydor sighed. "Miss Johnson, I said I would help," she repeated. "I mean what I say when I say it. Stop by my classroom after school on Monday. I know the squad doesn't have practice."

"Oh. Yes, ma'am. Thank you," Brenda said, feeling crestfallen when she had no right to be. Miss Raydor had agreed to help her, which was more than she deserved; was the woman supposed to do cartwheels of joy at the prospect, too?

"Is that all?" Miss Raydor glanced at her watch. Getting ready to leave again. To go where?

"You look nice tonight," Brenda said, like an idiot.

After a pause, Miss Raydor replied slowly, "Thank you."

"Is it just for the open house?" Brenda managed, wringing her hands again, and scuffing her toes in the gravel to boot. Miss Raydor stared at her in clear amazement. "I mean, it's only eight, Friday night, you're all dressed up, I guess you're going...out, maybe?"

_Going out. _The idea seemed laughable. Unless maybe her grabby boyfriend was visiting again? But even if he was, where would Miss Raydor go 'out'? Brenda knew that her parents went to dinner maybe once a month. A movie in a blue moon. A Willie Nelson concert once. She couldn't imagine Miss Raydor going to the movies or listening to music, but she had to eat like everyone else, so that's probably what she did when she went on—on dates or whatever.

All of a sudden, as clear as day, Brenda had a vision of walking with her into The Varsity: Miss Raydor dressed just like this, with her hair down, looking so pretty for Brenda, just like Brenda knew she should try to look pretty for Fritz. Sitting together in a booth...

She heard herself blurt, "Do you want to—" at the exact same moment Miss Raydor said, "My plans are my own business, Miss Johnson."

Then they stared at each other. Miss Raydor frowned. "Do I want to what?" she asked.

"What, no, nothing!" Brenda managed. "I, I didn't intend to pry—sorry—"

"No, it's…" Miss Raydor sighed. "Perhaps that was a little sharp. I didn't mean to—"

"Brenda Leigh!" her father called, and Brenda whirled around, scarcely able to make out the figures of her father and mother waving at her across the parking lot. She could barely see anything at all. Everything looked fuzzy, and it seemed like the world was tilting a little bit.

"Well, there are your parents," Miss Raydor said, as if Brenda couldn't tell. Was that relief in her voice? Probably—she was probably glad to get rid of Brenda, and oh heavens, what had Brenda even been about to say? _Do you want to go for a milkshake? _ "I'll see you on Monday."

"Yeah," Brenda croaked, and took off towards her parents, jogging. She didn't look back. She didn't need to see how beautiful that cold woman was in the moonlight with her hair down. She didn't ever need to see that again.

Because she was never going to forget it.

* * *

TBC. Feedback is most welcome!


	14. Chapter 14

Brenda desperately wished for quiet during the car ride home, but that was not to be. Her parents wanted to talk. Clay and Willie Rae were pleased and proud that Brenda had acquitted herself so well that Miss Raydor had actually agreed to help her with a college application, though Clay made sure to emphasize that this was much more to Miss Raydor's credit than Brenda's.

"Georgetown," Willie Rae said, sounding both amazed and a little hurt. "Why didn't you ever say something to us?"

Brenda squirmed. She wasn't in good shape to have this conversation. She wasn't in good shape to have any conversation at all. "I knew you didn't want me to go far away to school. I just told a couple of teachers, is all. I don't know how she heard about it."

"She said they talk about you," Clay pointed out. He gave Brenda a relieved smile in the rear view mirror. "And she didn't seem that angry, neither. She seemed like a real nice young lady."

_Young lady?_ Brenda's jaw nearly dropped. Well…she supposed Miss Raydor was younger than her parents by a fair bit. She'd just never thought of her as…

"And so attractive too," Willie Rae added. "I wasn't expecting that."

"Me neither," Brenda said before she could think better of it.

"What's that, honey?"

"I mean—" Brenda licked her lips. "She never looks like that. Ever. She always has her hair up and she wears glasses. And a suit. I don't know why she looked like that tonight."

Her father gave voice to her own thoughts: "I expect she has plans. Pretty gal like that ought to, on a Friday night."

"I'm surprised she's not married," Willie Rae said. "She doesn't seem like the old maid schoolteacher type, does she?"

"She has a boyfriend," Brenda croaked, and then cleared her throat, sounding more natural when she added, "He came to a game once. He lives back in New York."

Willie Rae clicked her tongue, as if to say that nobody was perfect. "Well, she ought to find a nice Georgia boy, then." She glanced back over her shoulder and added, "Anyhow—Georgetown, Brenda Leigh? Really?"

Brenda felt her shoulders slump. It was going to be a long evening.

Sure enough, when they got home, her father made her get out the Georgetown catalogue she'd stuffed under her mattress so they could start going through it together. Willie Rae made hot chocolate, but it didn't help much. Brenda would have given her eyeteeth for a little peace and quiet. She'd spent days, no, weeks—

—no. Months—

trying not to think about anything, and now, when she finally wanted to gather her thoughts, she had no space to do so. By the time ten o'clock rolled around and her parents called a merciful halt, she was about ready to scream.

"Well, we'll see how it goes, pumpkin," Clay said, kissing her cheek. "Looks like you might have made a good choice. You talk to your teacher about it."

Your teacher. As if Brenda only had one, all of a sudden. She swallowed harshly. "Yes, sir."

Willie Rae patted her shoulder. "I'm glad you made it up with her." She kissed Brenda's cheek too. "It's good to see you back on the straight and narrow, honey. Stay there, all right?"

As Brenda brushed her teeth, climbed into bed, and pulled the covers up to her chin, she reflected that she couldn't even remember what the straight and narrow was supposed to look like anymore.

Finally alone in the dark, with room to think, she found that she didn't know where to begin. She clutched the covers, kneaded them, bit her bottom lip. "Okay," she whispered to the darkness. "Okay."

Begin at the beginning.

Begin with Miss Raydor's first day at school. Her glasses, the little smirk, the hint of cologne (_because I like the way it smells)._

Begin at the crown of her head, the red-brown hair all tugged back in the bun on the nape of her neck, and travel down: travel over her face, her shoulders and arms, the tailored lines of her suit, her slender legs, her dainty feet in those dumb high heels.

Begin with the clack of those heels on the tile floor, the surest announcement of Miss Raydor's presence that Brenda knew. Begin with the low hum of her voice.

But if all that was the beginning—the sights and sounds and scents that Brenda had taken in right away—then where was the end? Brenda squeezed her eyes shut and bit her lip again.

It didn't help. She was warm inside, soft, melting, just from lying still and thinking about that woman.

In her mind's eye, Miss Raydor turned to her. Her lips parted, widened ever so slightly into a conspiratorial smile, as if they were sharing a secret.

"Oh my goodness," Brenda breathed, out loud and everything, clutching the blankets even tighter. To keep her hands from doing what they wanted to do. What maybe they'd always wanted to do.

No. Oh, no. She was supposed to be thinking. She was supposed to work this out. She needed to be rational and clear-headed and look at all the clues. But it was hard—impossible, really—to think rationally when she was squirming beneath the covers and getting overheated. She remembered, her face burning, waking up from that dream with her hand already between her legs.

Well. Perhaps, after all, emergency measures were called for. They always seemed to be when Miss Raydor was involved. Brenda gulped. She was shaking all over with the acceptance of what she wanted to do more than anything, she just wanted to give in and _do _it and…

Could she? Did she really dare?

Brenda whimpered. Well, she'd—she'd think about it. She'd let her mind wander, let it go where it wanted to go, and eventually she'd be able to pull it back and consider matters more rationally. She'd just—picture things, and—

In her mind's eye, Miss Raydor was still waiting patiently, silently, with that tiny smile on her face.

"Oh, you…you awful woman," Brenda whispered. "I just hate you."

Miss Raydor took a step forward and shook her head.

"No," Brenda said brokenly, clutching the sheet with one hand, and letting the other—finally—drift beneath the sheets, down her belly, towards her thighs. "No, I don't." She gulped. "I don't hate you a bit, do I?"

Now Miss Raydor nodded at what she'd known all along. She took another step forward.

Brenda gave in with a little groan and let her mind go. Miss Raydor really smiled, showing the thinnest slice of teeth.

Now she was going to take down her hair for Brenda. Then she'd look like she had at the open house. But just for Brenda this time, and nobody else. All that hair, that glorious hair that she kept knotted up, just falling all over her shoulders—

Looking straight into Brenda's eyes, Miss Raydor reached up behind her own head and unpinned her bun, raising an eyebrow in silent inquiry.

In her room, Brenda was silent; but in her imagination, she whispered, "Yes. Oh yes, ma'am, you do that."

Miss Raydor dropped her hands and her hair spiraled out of the bun, still in a tight furl that uncurled down her back. Then, smiling, Miss Raydor shook her head, making the furl come loose, encouraging it with her fingertips.

"Oh my God," Brenda moaned, and all of a sudden, her fingers were going down in her panties, between her legs, and she wasn't going to stop herself this time. She wasn't. She was going to have this, and nobody would know. Miss Raydor would certainly never know. She couldn't really read Brenda's mind.

Just this once, Brenda would have this just for one time, and nobody would know.

Brenda's finger slipped and slid as soon as she touched herself, and for a second her mind went blank when she realized how wet she already was. That hadn't happened before, well, not this much. This was what the women in her momma's romance novels said they felt like. That was true? Women could really feel this way? For that one second, she wasn't even thinking about Miss Raydor, instead marveling at how sensitive and swollen she already was without even touching anything, just from fantasizing about—

Oh! Right. Brenda swallowed, and commanded Miss Raydor, "Come here. You get over here now."

Miss Raydor raised an eyebrow again. Then she smirked.

Oh no, this was not happening. Not in her fantasy. "Don't you dare ruin this!" Brenda hissed. "You've got to do what I say!"

"Oh, Brenda Leigh," Miss Raydor murmured, and Brenda actually clenched between her legs just from imagining her voice. "Do you even know what you'll do with me?" She placed a hand over her heart.  
Then she slid the hand slowly down her chest, cupping her breast and arching up a little. Brenda squeaked, letting go of the covers as she clutched at her own right breast with her free hand. She'd never done that before either, but—how else was she supposed to imagine what it would feel like to—

"I don't know what I'll do with you," she whimpered, squeezing, stunned by the hot sting of sensation. "I don't know what to do with you, or about you, _damn _it, I told you not to ruin this for me!"

Then she stopped rubbing herself and stared up at the ceiling in frustrated rage, her fingers cramped and sticky. Leave it to Miss Raydor to make Brenda feel like an idiot even in her own imagination. But what did two women do? That idiot Everett had said there was kissing. Naked women kissing. Well, that made sense.

She could start with that, Brenda decided, and began to touch herself again with more determination.

"You want to kiss me?" Miss Raydor asked.

Brenda gritted her teeth. "Yeah."

"Where?"

"Anywhere, you—! In your supply closet," Brenda said, deciding at once. "After school, maybe, when nobody's around."

Miss Raydor studied her nails. "That's not nearly good enough for me."

"Well what would _you _like, Miss Yankee Snob?"

Miss Raydor smiled. "A luxury hotel, of course. In Paris. With satin sheets and a king-sized bed. Can't you just picture me there?" Brenda gasped, arching into her own hand. "Oh, yes. That would be nice, wouldn't it? We could order some wine, you could see me naked..."

"Oh mercy," Brenda managed, pretty impressed with herself for thinking all this up.

"...and I would do anything you said..."

"Really?" Brenda panted, moving her fingers faster and faster. "Well, you could start right now and take off your shirt."

Miss Raydor hummed. A lock of red-brown hair fell over her eye, and she winked at Brenda from behind it. Then she slowly began to unbutton her green blouse, and Brenda saw a flash of red—a bright red satin bra and, beneath it, the soft pale curves of Miss Raydor's—

She convulsed with a yelp, and it was over, just like that.

Brenda gasped and gazed up at the shadows on her ceiling again, her heart pounding. Outside her window, she heard the low rumble of a solitary car passing by on the street.

She drew her trembling hand from between her trembling thighs. Oh, that—that awful woman, that—really? _Really? _Brenda was only going to allow herself this one time, just to clear her head, and it was over so quickly?

Beneath the blanket, she cringed in humiliation. Thank all the heavens Miss Raydor truly would never know about this. Wouldn't she just laugh and laugh? Right after slapping Brenda across the face for thinking naughty thoughts about her.

And they hadn't really been that naughty. She hadn't gotten a chance. Miss Raydor's shirt hadn't even come off. She hadn't even gotten through all the buttons! It wasn't fair. It simply wasn't fair.

She swallowed. Still, though. Maybe she'd learned a tiny something about her situation. If Miss Raydor got her so worked up that Brenda went off like a rocket just by thinking about her bra…well, it had been more than just the bra. The Paris hotel room and whatnot. Miss Raydor, talking about getting naked. Offering to do anything Brenda said.

All of a sudden, it was back, the heat, a thousand times worse than before, as the very idea overwhelmed Brenda. Miss Raydor, offering herself to Brenda, giving Brenda whatever she wanted, as much as she wanted, wherever she wanted—anything—

Oh, for heaven's sake! Brenda sobbed as she reached beneath the covers and tugged her panties off completely, kicking them down to the foot of the bed. Again. She needed to do it again. She'd never needed to do it twice before. But the first time had been so fast it hadn't counted, it hadn't even been that great, not satisfying in the least, and…

She closed her eyes and reached out for what she wanted, summoned that woman back to her. Only Miss Raydor wasn't actually in a Paris hotel. She was back in the alley, pushing Brenda against the wall, nose to nose. "Cherchez la femme," she said.

"Found you," Brenda growled, and pushed back, grabbing Miss Raydor's shoulders and whirling them around, shoving her up against the wall. "You said you're gonna do what I want?"

Miss Raydor stared at her, into her eyes, seeing her. "What do you want?"

"Shut up!" Brenda shrieked, grabbed her face, and kissed her.

But it was confusingly vague. Brenda couldn't really imagine the kiss. How soft would another woman's lips be? How warm?

So she imagined pulling away from Miss Raydor's mouth, kissing her throat instead, licking and sucking like Wallace had tried that one time because he wanted to leave a hickey. She hadn't let him, but Miss Raydor had to let her. Just like she had to let Brenda shove up her skirt so she could spread her legs, tilting her hips to let Brenda in, closer than ever. Her body would be pliant and as hot as a coal.

(In her bed, Brenda whimpered again, swirling her fingers around, but she needed more pressure. She turned over on her stomach, ground down on her hand, and then had to hold very still for a minute because she was about to finish again.)

"My boyfriend's coming," Miss Raydor said, and for a second, Brenda wondered at how perfectly she could imagine the hitch in her voice, the hint of a groan.

"Good," Brenda panted, and she wasn't sure what to do now, so she just let her hands roam everywhere, smoothing over Miss Raydor's sides, up and down her thighs. "Let him."

Miss Raydor tilted her head back and gasped, "What?"

"Let everybody come and look, see if I care," Brenda said, grabbing the open edges of Miss Raydor's green blouse and yanking them wider apart to see the red bra underneath. "They can't have you, not those men, not your stupid girls—"

She wasn't sure what to do about the bra, or about anything now that she had Miss Raydor almost half naked. Her imagination was stumbling up against its limits, but she couldn't stop now—

Miss Raydor's face was flushed, her mouth swollen and her eyes glassy. Brenda could picture it just as clear as day.

"I'm yours," she said, "Brenda Leigh, I am only yours."

In her bed, Brenda's hips bucked against the mattress, she pressed her fingers down hard, and had to muffle her cry in the pillow. She'd never done that before either. She went rigid, her toes curled, and it felt so good that it just about killed her.

Then she slumped down on the mattress, coming to rest on her own hand while she gasped and quaked in the aftermath.

"Oh my Lord," she panted, her voice barely audible. Good thing too. "Oh, you woman..." Miss Raydor did not reply. Miss Raydor had disappeared.

Brenda rolled over, off her hand, feeling the stickiness between her thighs. She should get out of bed, clean herself up, or at least put her underwear back on. And then she should think, rationally, clearly, she should think…

She thought, _I wanna do that about a thousand more times _before her eyes closed and the day finally came to an end.

* * *

When Brenda looked at herself in her mirror the next morning, she definitely knew she was different. Scarcely recognized herself, in fact. Someone else was looking back at her with wide eyes, skin that was too pale beneath a flush, and hair that was in desperate need of a good combing.

She'd dreamed, and dreamed, and dreamed, and probably most of it she didn't remember, but some of it she did: kissing that woman, mainly, and it had been more vivid and real in her dreams than she'd been able to imagine while awake. Miss Raydor's mouth had been warm, soft, had parted willingly beneath Brenda's lips. She'd been much nicer in the dream, too, not at all stuck-up or snooty. She'd smiled tenderly at Brenda, taken her in her arms, just as if she really liked her. It had been so sweet, so lovely, and Brenda hadn't even needed to yell at her or anything.

And then Brenda woke up and it was all gone.

She watched herself in the mirror as she touched her mouth with hesitant fingers. Then she started brushing her hair, keeping her movements smooth and methodical. Why did today have to be Saturday? If it was a school day, she could make time to get out on the track and run some laps until her mind cleared. Here, there was only the sidewalk, and Willie Rae didn't let Brenda go out jogging alone for fear she'd be kidnapped or run over "because you never pay attention to where you're going, Brenda Leigh, I swear."

And if it was a school day, Miss Raydor would be around too.

Brenda shivered. As always, her momma was right about everything. She hadn't been paying a lick of attention to where she was going, and now she was here. Wherever 'here' was.

She looked at her reflection again and bit her lip. The last time she'd looked at herself like this, searching for differences, had been the night she'd given Fritz his first handjob. Oh, good gracious. Fritz.

She turned away from her mirror and sat down on the edge of her bed, flipping her hairbrush back and forth between her hands. Fritz. What on earth was she supposed to do about that? He liked her so much. He was so good to her.

And he knew something was up. Brenda gulped. He'd said things, noticed things, about the way Brenda reacted to that woman—shoot, he'd noticed it before she had. But how much had he really seen? Not everything. He wouldn't want to be with her, wouldn't say those sweet things to her on the phone, if he really knew that…

Brenda rubbed her fingertips over her forehead. If he knew that she was having mushy, kissy dreams about Miss Raydor. Oh, Lord have mercy. And if he knew that Brenda's waking thoughts were even worse.

Worse, and frightening, and hot, and terribly beautiful. In her mind's eye, Brenda saw Miss Raydor's smile again. And that alone was enough to make her throb between her legs.

Oh, for heaven's sake.

She bit her lip and looked at the bedside clock. Eight-thirty a.m. She should really be up by now, she could smell breakfast cooking down the hall, but maybe…did she have time? Her right hand gripped her knee indecisively. Did she have time? And what would she think about? She didn't even know where to begin, there were so many things to think about, so many scenarios, like maybe…

Like maybe she was reciting Shakespeare again. Only this time, Miss Raydor wouldn't be all mean about Lady Macbeth at the end. Instead, they were all alone in the classroom, and—

Brenda closed her eyes, sliding her hand between her legs again with a whimper. They were all alone in the classroom, and…

"I feel now the future in the instant," Brenda said.

This time, instead of crossing her legs, Miss Raydor uncrossed them.

"That was excellent," she said. Now she wasn't sitting behind a student desk, just in a regular chair. Then she lifted up a hand and crooked a finger in invitation. "Why don't you come over here?"

"And what?" Brenda managed.

"And let me do what your boyfriend can't." Miss Raydor waggled her fingers in demonstration.

In real time, in her bedroom, Brenda actually had to pause her hand to recover both from the sudden, murderous rush of arousal, and also from her own sheer brilliance. Goodness gracious, that scenario could happen anywhere, in a classroom or the supply closet or the alley or the Paris hotel or absolutely _anywhere._ Perfect. Miss Raydor's fingertips sliding up the inside of Brenda's thigh—there was just no end to all the ways Brenda could dream about—

The knock on the door nearly scared her out of her skin. "Brenda Leigh!" her father's voice called. "Come on, now! Your momma's almost got breakfast on the table."

Brenda yanked her sticky fingers from between her thighs and squeaked, "C-coming!" Or not, as it happened. She wiped her fingers on a Kleenex, shaking and unsatisfied. She felt feverish. Lord have mercy, whatever had gotten into her?

She tossed the Kleenex into the wastebasket and took another look at herself in the mirror. Her eyes glittered back at her. No indeed, she didn't understand what she saw there in the least.

Willie Rae had something to say about it, though, as Brenda hurried into the kitchen. "Good morning, dear," she said, looking up from the skillet. "You feelin' like French toast?" Her eyes widened, and so did her smile. "You must be."

"Huh?"

"Got a sparkle in your eye and a bloom in your cheek, don't you?"

"I-I do?" Brenda fidgeted. "I don't mean to."

Willie Rae chuckled. "I'm only picking. You just look better, is all. You've been down in the dumps all week, and this morning you're bouncing around like you're in love."

Brenda's jaw dropped, but just then Willie Rae turned back to the skillet, muttering under her breath as smoke began to rise from the pan.

Brenda dropped down into her chair next to her father, who was scarcely visible behind his newspaper. Like she was in love? Like she was in _love? _

That was just absurd. Brenda didn't even know Miss Raydor. She didn't even know her first name, now that she thought about it. And she wouldn't have the opportunity to find out for two more days. Because that's how long until she could go to school again. Two more days.

But she had so much to do between now and then. Homework. And whatall. And thinking about that Georgetown application that she had to—

That Miss Raydor had agreed to help her with. On Monday. After school. Just the two of them, presumably. One on one. _Brenda Leigh, I am only yours._

Even drowning her French toast in pure maple syrup wasn't enough to calm her down after that. Not even when Willie Rae let her drink chocolate milk instead of regular milk ("good to see your appetite back, honey").

Maybe it wouldn't be one on one, Brenda told herself as she scrubbed the syrup and crumbs from the plates after breakfast was done. Sure, applications weren't due for a few more months, but she couldn't be the only one getting ready to work on them. For all Brenda knew, Miss Raydor helped people out like this all the time. There might be lots of students there on Monday afternoon.

Like Amy and Grace and Trish. All of that gaggle Brenda's mind whirled as she returned to her bedroom and grabbed her bathrobe. It kept whirling as she padded down the hallway to the second bathroom, the little tiny one her parents mostly let her have to herself, although she had to clean it up when company came.

She couldn't do much about Trish, but Amy and Grace were on the squad. Miss Raydor knew the squad didn't practice on Monday, but surely Brenda could think of something for them to do. One screw-up in the halls, and she could have them running laps. Or she could sweeten the deal instead—promise them starring roles in the spring season if they'd spend a little extra time on Monday afternoon doing…something she'd think of later. That'd thin the field a little. But only by two people.

Oh, that woman! Being so helpful and making herself available to everyone, so that Brenda had to think her way around it and strategize. That was just classic Miss Raydor, so typical of her—making everything difficult!

Well, Brenda thought as she stripped off her nightie and turned on the shower, she was up to the challenge. And a challenge it would be. She had her work cut out for her if she was ever going to atone for being such a brat, much less get Miss Raydor to like her. It'd happen, though. She just had to think positive.

After all, this wasn't such a terribly big deal. She was overreacting, just being dramatic, with all this worry about Fritz and so on. And no wonder, when she'd been so worked up for so long, without knowing why. But now she knew, sort of, so she could quit thinking about it.

Because it wasn't as if Brenda really was in love with the woman—it wasn't as if she thought Miss Raydor would ever take down her hair and wink at her. That was just imagination. It was only something psychological, Brenda was sure of that. Now that she knew about it, she could start getting over it. Right as rain.

The real Miss Raydor was Brenda's teacher, and that's all she'd ever be, and that's all Brenda really wanted her to be, wasn't it? Anything else was just unthinkable. No, she and Miss Raydor just ought to be—friendlier together, that was all. That was plenty. "Love," indeed!

After all, Brenda liked boys, really. She'd never imagined kissing another woman in her life. Until Everett's stupid jokes, she hadn't really thought about women kissing each other at all—oh, she'd heard the jokes in the locker rooms, of course, she'd heard the words "dyke" and "faggot" thrown around, but somehow they never seemed real, like they could apply to actual people.

They certainly didn't apply to her. Brenda wasn't a…dyke. She gulped. No, of course she wasn't. But she should probably make sure, just in case. She turned her face into the hot spray of the shower and tried to imagine it with other girls: kissing Amy, or sitting in Trish's lap. Eww. No, never! And just to make extra sure, she pictured herself putting her arms around Coach Daniels. No, definitely not that, either. Any other pretty girls she could think of? Or even women. What about Bo Derek in her swimsuit?

No?

Well. That was a relief. Brenda decided to reward herself for liking boys most of the time, and took a little detour instead of shampooing her hair. After all, she had time to herself now—her parents never intruded while she was in the shower.

It was just her imagination, Brenda reminded herself as she slipped her hand between her thighs. It wasn't real. It wasn't wrong. Nobody would know. And it probably wouldn't even be as good as last night. How could it be? How could anything ever feel that good again?

Brenda rested her forehead against the cool, slick tile wall and let her fingers slowly, but surely go to work. Right there. Little circles. Oh, that was good. She realized, with a tiny, frantic jolt, that she'd been waiting for this ever since getting out of bed. Her mouth was dry in spite of all the steam, and she had to lick her lips.

_Let me do what your boyfriend can't._

Brenda gave a rueful chuckle before she could stop herself—poor Fritzy—but she'd already replaced him in the backseat of his car. This time it was Miss Raydor's lap she straddled; it was Miss Raydor's cool green eyes regarding her impassively behind her glasses. Brenda shuddered, and ran her fingertips up the inside of her thighs, now slicked with water, just the way she imagined it would feel with a lady's hands instead of a boy's.

"Kiss me," Miss Raydor said.

"You don't get to tell me what to do," Brenda retorted, but she did it anyway, leaning forward and kissing the corner of Miss Raydor's mouth, softly and gently, just like she had in her dreams. "Oh, that's nice. You are just so pretty." Miss Raydor hummed agreeably, and to her surprise, Brenda kept talking while Miss Raydor's fingertips crept up higher towards her curls. "You're pretty, and you smell so good, and I just—I just—"

"You'd let me do this," Miss Raydor breathed in Brenda's ear. Her fingertips gently began to trace Brenda's outer lips, found the hot bubble of moisture. "You really would, wouldn't you? If I wanted to. If I offered."

"Ummm—"

"If I tried to take you into the supply closet on Monday afternoon and put my hand up your skirt, you would absolutely let me. Fritz or no Fritz."

"But you won't!"

"But you _would._"

Brenda dropped her hand from between her legs and gently thudded her head against the tile wall. Right. Apparently, this was the way her imagination was gonna be from now on. Any time she let Miss Raydor be in charge of things, nothing good was going to happen. The woman would just talk her to death. Even in her dreams.

Well, fantasy was fantasy, and if part of Brenda's fantasy involved making Miss Raydor shut the heck up already, who was she to repress it? Thinking herself back into the car's backseat, she ordered, "You be quiet and let me do like I want."

"But—"

Brenda kissed her silent, and then she was the one on the seat with Miss Raydor in her lap, her skirt all hiked up again, her shirt open and bra exposed. No more talking. Brenda's best work always started with her instincts. So she put her own hand up Miss Raydor's skirt and let herself figure it out. Miss Raydor was a woman too, right? So she'd have lips like this, and a little button like this, and…Brenda could push with her thumb, probably, and…

Miss Raydor's head tilted back, her eyes closed, and her breathing quickened. She didn't say a word while Brenda worked on her, winding her up until she got as wet and slick as Brenda was here and now, in the shower. Her hips began to move, undulate, and Brenda imagined the scent of her cologne between her breasts, which was where—she suddenly realized—Miss Raydor probably spritzed it every day. Because when they'd sat next to each other in the classroom that morning, and she'd been able to smell it, that was because it had been drifting up from…

Brenda came so hard that her knees almost buckled and she almost fell smack down on her bottom in the tub.

At least this time, she thought, leaning dizzily against the wet tiles, she hadn't cried out. It'd been a near thing, though. Oh, that woman, putting scent on her chest instead of behind her ears like normal women did, that was just so like her, wasn't it?

She felt oddly disconsolate as she rinsed her fingertips before shampooing her hair. Why? It had been wonderful, more than, but something was missing. Something was lacking. Brenda didn't know what that could be, though, since this was just pretend. It wasn't as if she'd ever have…

She gulped and blinked, and started rinsing her hair. The shampoo must be making her eyes sting. She felt nearly as if she were about to cry.

* * *

TBC, eventually. I am taking a short break, just because A) it's the holidays and B) my brain has been eaten alive by the relationship between James Bond and M in Skyfall, and I need to get them out of my system! But feedback is always welcome and appreciated, come what may :)


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